


Your little brother never told you (but he loves you so)

by ARollingStone, HarveyDangerfield



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dimension Travel, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Self-Hatred, Sibling Incest, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Will Add Tags As They Become Relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-09-28 01:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17173604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARollingStone/pseuds/ARollingStone, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyDangerfield/pseuds/HarveyDangerfield
Summary: Finding himself in an alternate world where Stanley and Ford are still teenagers before the fated science fair, Ford the inter-dimensional traveler injects himself into Stan's life, to try and give him a better future than he ever gave his own Stanley.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Chemistry Final](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7060240) by [mahisquared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahisquared/pseuds/mahisquared). 



> this idea came to me after reading the short smut-trilogy written by mahisquared. I wanted to try my hand at a similar concept, but with a bit more drama thrown in for fun!
> 
> the underage tag is for the twins starting the fic at 17, but they'll be 18 by the time it ends!
> 
> written with grvnklestan on tumblr~

Honestly, Ford probably would have resorted to murder to land this job. As soon as he found out he was in an alternate timeline of his own life, back in the 70's, he immediately launched a full-scale investigation into his family's life. They still live in Glass Shard Beach, and everything seems normal, just the way he remembered it from his own childhood, so Ford can't help but wonder if the deviation to the timeline was made elsewhere and nothing has changed in this reality-- but either way, he can't help but meddle.  
  
It was easy to pay off the science teacher, a quick 100k with no strings attached, the only catch is they have to leave their job without warning and move out of the country. The previous teacher, Mr. Bacula, took the money without even thinking and left for Switzerland, leaving the job wide open with no backup plan, just one week into the first semester.  
  
Enter Clifford Forrest, a 45 year old scientist with 12 PHD's and all the requisite faked paperwork, just looking to settle into small town life as he approaches middle age, hoping to pass on his passion for science to the next generation. The interview lasted less than an hour, and he was given the job on the spot.  
  
Unaware of the timeline-warping shenanigans wrapping purposely around him, it was just another day for Stanley Pines. As far as he knows, everything is the same it’s always been. His dad woke up on the wrong side of the bed as always, breakfast was rushed, his mother kissed him goodbye, someone threw something at him on the bus-- all the same as usual. The only thing that’s a little out of the ordinary is the fact that his period right before lunch is dragging on past the final bell, and the teacher still isn’t there.  
  
Finally, five minutes past, the teacher comes in through the door and the entire room goes silent. The previous teacher had been a small, pudgy, somewhat nervous fellow with a mustache and pouchy eyes, and a mean streak the size of New Jersey. He'd been the only high school science teacher there for nearly 15 years, teaching every grade from 9-12, and everyone was used to him. So when the new teacher walks in, everyone would have shut up and paid attention even if he didn't make a presence-- but make a presence he did.  
  
Six foot three with sharp blue eyes, a square stubbled jaw and an intriguing streak of bright silver in his greying brown hair, their teacher enters the room with the aura and dignity of a bird of prey, a high tight turtle neck giving him a studious appearance that matches the glasses on his nose, and his broad shoulders are emphasized by the crisp grey peacoat fluttering behind him as he approaches his desk at the front of the classroom.  
  
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he says, offering a bright smile to the classroom full of startled faces. "You may call me Mr. Forrest. Mr. Bacula took an unexpected permanent leave to the alps, so I will be your teacher for the foreseeable future.”  
  
Stanley immediately finds himself sitting up straighter than where he'd usually be slumped in his seat, whacking his paddle ball incessantly-- nobody really told him off about it anymore, it didn't do much good; but the instant "Mister Forrest" walks in, he straightens up like he's been struck with the fear of God himself, eyes snapping to attention, trained on the teacher.   
  
About half of the class sing-songs "good morning" back to him, the other half, including Stanley, just acknowledge him with awestruck looks. Most of them are wondering if he'd walked out of a James Bond movie, he looks the part, tall and rugged as he is, he looks like a real-life comic book hero brought to life, or the hero-professor of a Burroughs story, brought to life and plopped down right in their classroom. The parallels are endless, but a bunch of highschoolers aren't too keen to wax philosophical on that.   
  
While everyone is quiet, it's of course Stanley who speaks up first, "What happened Mister Bacula? Did he finally kick the bucket, or didja snap his neck to assert dominance?"   
  
Some of the girls near the back of the room giggle at Stan's joking tone, other students are giving him looks that silently beg the question "Are you insane?" but he just shrugs them off, and continues to whack his paddle ball, feet up on the desk. In a way, Stan commands presence in the room too-- not only by taking up space, but there's something about him that's always stood out effortlessly. It's something Ford had, had to cultivate over the years, but seeing his brother now he's reminded of how naturally that gift had always come to him.  
  
“I would never murder a man for a high school teaching position,” Mr. Forrest smirks. “Far too much red tape involved in getting out of prison. Feet on the floor if you please,” he glances down at a book on his desk before meeting Stan’s once more with a neutral, if cold, look. “Mr. Pines.”  
  
Feeling a little testy today, considering the morning he'd had, Stan's lip draws up in a sneer and for a moment it looks like he's either going to argue, or launch himself across the desk at the teacher, but after a bit of huffing and puffing and being generally irritated, he puts his feet on the floor.   
  
"Yeah? What would a nerd like you know about prison anyways?" He scoffs, rolling his eyes.  
  
Mr. Forrest completely ignores Stan’s question, turning instead to roll call-- somehow even more mysterious than anything he could have possibly said. He launches instead, directly into the lesson-- after all, they're already a week in, the kids have already passed the point of easing them back out of summer and into school work.   
  
Beside Stan, Ford is practically vibrating with excitement to work with a new teacher. Mr. Bacula had appreciated Ford's intellect, but he had been a nervous and mean man. They can't quite yet get a read on Mr. Forrest, but he's certainly intriguing just to be near, and Ford eats up the lesson. Every time the teacher asks a question of the class, Ford's hand shoots up-- but surprisingly, he doesn't always call on Ford, even when no other hands are raised.   
  
In fact, as the class period wears on, Ford seems mildly disturbed by the fact that the teacher doesn't seem to feel any particular kind of way about him. He doesn't seem annoyed that he's a know-it-all, and he doesn't seem impressed that he's smart-- he just acknowledges the fact that Ford often has his hand raised and doesn't comment whatsoever. Ford actually seems a little hurt by the fact.   
  
So when the bell rings signaling the end of the period and all the students start to pack up and shuffle out of the room, Ford immediately approaches the desk with a bright smile. "That was a wonderful lesson, Mr. Forrest," he says, shifting his bag in his arms. "Mr. Bacula never really went into depth with the theory of transference of motion. I'm Stanford Pines, maybe you've already heard of me? I'm looking forward to--"  
  
He's cut off when Mr. Forrest, who had really been giving him only the barest amount of attention, calls out instead for his brother behind him as he tries to slink out of the room to wait for Ford in the hall. "Oh, Mr. Pines. I'd like to speak with you for a moment, if you don't mind. I won't keep you long."   
  
Ford immediately shrinks down in embarrassment.   
  
"Me? Whaddaya want with me? It's Poindexter you'll wanna look out for, he's the smart twin." Stanley tries to bolster his brother's attempt to get Mister Forrest's attention, but it doesn't work. The old guy looks right past Ford, so he glances around before slinging his bag a bit higher over his shoulder, and crossing back to the teacher's desk. "Look if this is about all that stuff during class, I was just givin' yiz a hard time 'cuz you're new." Stanley tries to cover quickly, glancing at his brother, perhaps searching for some help.  
  
"No, nothing like that," Mr. Forrest says, clasping his hands behind his back. He gives Ford a pointed look, but it only takes a moment of that hard gaze before Ford seems to get the idea.   
  
"I'll wait in the hall," he murmurs, and then scurries quickly from the classroom. Mr. Forrest waits until he and Stanley are alone in the classroom before looking back at him.   
  
Whatever he was about to say dies in his mouth, however, when he catches a glimpse of Stan's hand on the strap of his backpack. So that's how the timelines differ. One little gene switches twins, and an entirely new reality is born. Without thinking, he blurts, "You have six fingers."  
  
"Huh? Oh. Yeah." Stan says, glancing down at his hand. Seems to be a bit of sore spot, because his ears turn pink and he looks away. "Polysomethin' I dunno, my brother knows the right word. Means I got six fingers, six toes too. Well, twelve I guess. So what? Issat what ya pulled me aside for?"  
  
"Polydactyly," Mr. Forrest fills in immediately, and then holds up his own hand. "I have it too."  
  
Sure enough, the new science teacher has a second pinkie, just like Stan. The first person in his life he's ever met who has the same condition, though that's not surprising in a little town like Glass Shard Beach.  
  
"Whoa, how'd that happen?" Stan squints down at the teacher's fingers. They're hard to see, mostly because he desperately needs glasses, but sure enough they're there. All six of them. "What're the odds, huh?"  
  
"Statistically speaking, not as rare as you might think. This is a relatively common mutation, about one in five hundred people are born with it, which is roughly six hundred and fifty thousand people in the united states-- eighteen thousand in New Jersey alone, if we're just going by the numbers." he clears his throat, already sensing Stan's eyes glazing over. "In any case, that isn't why I called you to speak with me."  
  
He lifts something off the desk, and then drops it with a dramatic thump, and Stan recognizes it immediately. It's a particular manilla envelope that has been waved at him and threatened at him more times than he'd care to remember in the principal's office over the years.   
  
"I was given your file, this morning," he says, and already Stan feels a heavy drop in his stomach. "And frankly, I find this rather unnecessary. Demerits on one's permanent record are one thing, factual infractions recorded chronologically I understand, but this folder is full of anecdotal opinion and bias. Do you know how scientists feel about opinion and bias, Mr. Pines?"  
  
"Uhh, not really." Stan says nervously, scratching the back of his neck. He isn't sure if this is going any place good but that may simply be his Pavlovian response to seeing that folder for the Nth time in his high school career. It's never a good thing when someone breaks it out.  
  
"Garbage," Mr. Forrest says. He picks up the file, and promptly drops the whole thing in the can beside his desk.  
  
"Uuuh...." Stan looks into the trash, then back at Mr. Forrest. "Okay...?"  
  
Without skipping a beat, Mr. Forrest continues. "I want to have a frank relationship with you," he says, leaning his hands on the desk. "I can see that your science and math grades have been abysmal since the sixth grade, but I refuse to believe that's because you aren't capable. Your file stands out to me, Mr. Pines. I want to help you succeed."  
  
"Frank relationship? Sorry Pal, I don't swing that way." Stan tries to brush the words off, tries to but fails. He shifts uncomfortably from one converse to the other, and adjusts the strap of his backpack nervously before he says, without looking up; "Ya really think you could help me?"  
  
Mr. Forrest only seems to chuckle at Stan's joke about his choice of words. "It's my job to help you, Mr. Pines," he says. "In giving your file a thorough read over, I can see you've been given up on by many of the teachers in this establishment. A history of minor infractions and backchat is hardly an excuse to give up on a young mind. This is your senior year, it's your last chance to pull your grades up out of the gutter. Future employers and schools, should you choose to pursue higher education, only look at the grades you graduate with. It doesn't matter if you've pulled solid D's in science and math for six years, if you graduate with high marks, then you're on a path for success. I'm looking to help you cheat the system, in a sense."  
  
"Ahh, I dunno about that, Mister Forrest." Stan says, still clearly uncomfortable. Even positive attention feels wrong--maybe even more so, because it's not something he's used to, so it feels even more on the wrong side of normal than being beat around the head by all his mistakes. "I don't see me goin' to college for nothin'. Like I says, if you're lookin' for somebody to tutor, you'd be better off with my brother. He's the egghead in the family. I'm just a nobody--I'll be lucky if...." he trails off and growls something under his breath. "Point is, I ain't your guy, Pal."  
  
"Your brother doesn't need the help," Mr. Forrest says, sounding almost bitter as he does. "Are you a gambling man, Mr. Pines?"  
  
"Guess so." Stan says, thinking of playing dice with his friends behind the dumpster while they smoke cigarettes at lunch time, but he doesn't say that. "Why?"  
  
"Then let's make a bet," Mr. Forrest says. "If I can get you to pass with A's in science and math, you get one massive favor of your choice, free of questions, repercussions, or strings. That could be anything from writing you a cover letter to get into any school you could possibly dream of, to putting forward the down payment on a car, to bailing you out of jail."  
  
"Heh, yeah?" Stanley grins. "You're willin' to put somethin' on the line, huh? Even after readin' all that?" He gestures to the bin, where the file sits, ready to be taken out with the night's garbage, never to be seen again. A relief, truly. "That's a pretty high wager, ya really think you could turn my grades around? I dunno if ya understand how much of a knucklehead I am."  
  
"It took me two and a half hours to read your file," Mr. Forrest smirks. "I'm very familiar with how much of a knucklehead you are."  
  
Stan gives a laugh that shakes his big belly, "Alright, alright--you're on."   
  
He slaps his hand on the desk. "Hope you're as smart as ya are sure, 'cuz you're gonna need it, Pal." he starts toward the door then and provides six-fingered wave over his shoulder. "See yiz tomorrow."  
  
"See you then," Mr. Forrest gives him a wave in return, and waits for him to leave before fishing the file back out of the trash. He can't actually throw it away, but it's the gesture that really counts. As much as he'd love for it to be taken out with the garbage, he'd rather not risk his position at this school by taking such high liberties within the first 24 hours.   
  
In the hallway, Ford snaps upright when the door opens, and immediately falls in line with his brother. "What was that all about?" he asks, nudging his shoulder against Stan's. "Are you already in trouble with the new teacher?"  
  
"Ya know that's the weird thing, thought I was gonna be in trouble for all those smart remarks I made in class." Stan says, glancing aside at Ford as they walk toward their next destination. "But he wasn't even mad--guess he got ahold of my permanent record, and he wants to tutor me. Me? Can you believe that? I told him you was the guy he was lookin' for, but he wanted me."  
  
"He what?" Ford looks shocked, taking a half step away from his brother as they walk so he can look him up and down, like he's expecting him to have transformed into a completely different man. He feels something... weird, in his chest. Something he can't place. "He wanted to tutor you? Well... I guess that's a good thing, right? It can't be a bad thing."  
  
"Yeah." Stan looks at Ford with some scrutiny then, wondering what his brother's thinking, and tries to clarify a little more. "Said that my grades were bad, but that he might could bring 'em up so I didn't fail and land myself in a bad position once I graduate." He stops walking and looks right at Ford. "What're you mad? I tried to advocate for yiz, ya know?"  
  
Ford feels that weird something in his chest again, but he shakes his head. "I'm not mad," he says, and it isn't technically a lie. He doesn't need tutoring, his grades are fantastic on his own merit, and he doesn't want his brother to fail high school, not even remotely. He doesn't know _what_ he's feeling, but he knows he's not angry at his brother. "Come on, let's get to lunch before all the cherry jello is gone."


	2. Chapter 2

Twenty minutes later than he should be, Stan rolls back up in the caddy and parks crooked in a space behind the school and rushes back inside the building after being let in by the janitor. He's fully expecting a lecture, at the very least, by Mr Forrest about being late, so he's already in his head, thinking of a million and one comebacks for the inevetible confrontation--if this doesn't ruin his relationship with the teacher, it'll just be something else. Better to get it over with if he can, than drag it on longer than need be.   
  
He pushes the door to Mr. Forrest's classroom open and crosses to the desk, sitting down in the chair that's sitting, empty and waiting for him, tossing his book bag down angrily beside it.   
  
"Yeah yeah, I know, I'm late." He grouches. "Whaddaya want? To crucify me? I got news for ya pal, I'm late a lotta the time, so just get used to it."  
  
Mr. Forrest looks up from his grading book with a furrowed brow, and glances up at the clock behind his desk. "Are you late? Oh, I hadn't noticed. Forgive me, I must have gotten caught up in grading."  
  
Closing his binder he sets it aside so he can give his attention to the teen, and he takes in that familiar defensive stance with a frown. "Are you alright?"  
  
"I'm fine." Stan growls, his shoulders hunching like an angry cat and he recedes back in his seat, giving the teacher a sour look. "Why? Whaddaya think somethin's wrong with me just 'cuz I'm late? I'm _fine_."  
  
"No, I thought something might be wrong because you're red-faced and cagey," Mr. Forrest says calmly. "Did something happen? Are you in trouble?"  
  
Stanley looks him over, like he's trying to gauge whether it's safe to say anything or not. He swallows down the lump in his throat, and uncurls from his shrunken posture, worrying his teeth over his lip for a moment or two. "Just got in trouble with my old man. Forgot to tell 'im I had tutorin' with ya after school. He was supposed to pick my brother up but decided to punish him for me bein' an idiot, so I had to drive him back home."  
  
"That's kind of you," Mr. Forrest says. "Our lessons are supposed to be an hour long, but I'll leave it up to you whether you'd like to take the remaining 40 minutes until 4 as our lesson, or work until 4:20. It doesn't make a massive difference, especially for our first lesson."  
  
Stan runs his fingers along his buzzed hair and softens a bit, "You're not mad?"  
  
"I'm not mad," Mr. Forrest leans forward on his elbows on the desk, clasping his hands together. "Doesn't seem fair to punish you for being 20 minutes late to your first lesson when I was late to my first day of class. Bit of a double standard, there. I'm not perfect, and I'm not in any position to punish you for imperfection, either."  
  
"Okay." Stanley says dumbly, not really sure how to approach this. He's waiting for the second shoe to drop, expecting his father or the principle to come storming in to give him the punishment of a lifetime, but nothing happens. He just sits looking at Mister Forrest for a little too long before he finally glances away.  
  
They just get into the lesson, then. The first one is simple enough, Mr. Forrest explains that he's just trying to gauge where Stan's abilities are as a baseline, and the longer they go into the lesson, the more relaxed Stan seems to become. Mr. Forrest isn't snapping at him, he isn't upset with him, he even smiles at Stan's jokes and cracks a couple of his own as they work their way through a worksheet of sixth grade math problems, followed by seventh and eighth.  
  
It's at the ninth grade that Stan starts to struggle, but even then there is no mockery, no teasing from Mr. Forrest despite the fact that Stan is blatantly showing him that he's hung up somewhere four years ago.   
  
Mr. Forrest takes a package of cookies from his desk to share as they take a little break, and he looks over Stan's sheet, shaking his head. "You started to struggle around Algebra II, looks like. And what happened? Your teachers just... gave up on you?"  
  
"I dunno--I just didn't get it, ya know? And whenever I asked for help, they'd just tell me that I should read the books, they didn't have time to 'hold my hand' through everything." Stan says, taking another cookie to crunch into. He mulls it over a moment, staring down at the sheet of math formulas.  "It just never stuck--it ain't like I'm stupid, I can do all the basic stuff like addin' and subtractin', multiplyin' and dividin', it's just when they started throwin' letters in with the numbers, my head got all mixed around and nobody wanted to take the time to explain it to me."  
  
"What about that genius brother of yours?" Mr. Forrest asks. "He can't find time in his busy schedule to help you?"  
  
"Ah c'mon, don't pick on Ford. He's got his hands full tryin' to work on all his college stuff." Stan runs his hand over his hair again. "He's just busy, ya know? Got a lot on his plate."  
  
"I'm sure he does," Mr. Forrest says casually. "In any case, it's unacceptable that your teachers just allowed you to start failing somewhere along the way. It's supposed to be our job to support you, it isn't your job to teach algebra to yourself. The nerve of some teachers, I--" he takes a slow breath. "Sorry. I don't want to get heated. I have strong feelings about lazy teachers."  
  
"You're gonna have a hayday here, then." Stan chuckles, offering Mister Forrest a grin. "Cuz the teachers in this school ain't nothin' but lazy. Why ya think everybody was in awe when ya walked in here like ya owned the place? Nobody in this school's looked as competent as you since forever. Nobody."  
  
"Well, I certainly didn't come here for the outstanding paycheck," Mr. Forrest chuckles. "With any luck I'll be able to whip this school into shape. I'll start clicker training the rest of the staff if I must. What do you think would incentivize them more? Bacon or chocolate?"  
  
"Definitely the bacon," Stan laughs, tossing his head back. "C'mon, you'd scare the fear'a God into 'em anyways, just by lookin' at 'em the right way. You look like you walked outta some kinda James Bond movie."  
  
"It's been said," Mr. Forrest smiles, and takes another cookie. "We'll have to start from where you started to have difficulties and work our way up from there. Mathematics education is cumulative, if you miss a step in the past it's extremely difficult to keep up. You're missing essential building blocks while the school continues to pile more on top of you. It's no wonder you've been struggling for as long as you have. They tell you that you should already know something and then act as if it's no longer their responsibility to teach you. There isn't a _threshold_ for learning, there's no finish line. There are regents, and graduation, and they'd like to make you believe that after you leave schooling, that's when you stop learning-- but it isn't true. You'll keep learning your entire life, and it's people like them who make children _resent_ learning so much their entire lives that  they grow up and turn into the same teachers who--"  
  
He cuts himself off again, pushing his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Forgive me. I said I wouldn't get heated."  
  
"Heh, ya know? Ya just reminded me of my brother. All you eggheads must be alike--I can say one word about somethin' that sets him off, and he'll just go on like that forever." Stan laughs again, he seems lighter now than when he'd shown up, nervous and scared. Something about Mr. Forrest makes it easy to be around him, even if things had gotten off to a rocky start.  
  
Mr. Forrest just huffs a small laugh at that comment, but he doesn't seem to have anything to say on the matter. They finish up their first lesson just a bit after 4:30, and Stan goes home feeling a little bit more optimistic for his future than he did waking up that morning.   
  
Even though the lessons are only an hour long twice a week, Stan finds himself making leaps and bounds in a short amount of time. Whenever he gets stuck on something, Mr. Clifford stops and focuses on the issue, helping Stan come at it from several different angles until he finally finds the solution that makes the pieces click. Sometimes he has to relearn something in more than one lesson period before it finally sticks permanent, but the fact that Mr. Clifford never once seems to lose patience with him when he does stagger is giving him the confidence to keep forging ahead.   
  
It isn't just math that Mr. Clifford helps him with, either. He does his best to keep Stan up to date in his science lessons as well, most notably in the periodic table, which the final tests are so fond of quizzing students on-- a fact he's made clear he disapproves of, and has already started fighting with the school board to allow him to rewrite the senior final exam.  
  
The more lesson periods Stan has with Mr. Forrest, the more agitated Ford becomes. He still isn't sure what it is he's feeling. The simple answer would be jealousy, but of who? He still gets the majority of his brother's time, and he certainly isn't hoping for a tutor himself, he could run rings around whatever tutor might try to teach him-- but then what is it?  
  
In fact, any time Stan so much as mentions Mr. Forrest, Ford closes himself off, as if just hearing his name alone is enough to injure him in some unseen way that Stan has yet to figure out. For his part, Stan starts to believe that Ford really, truly is upset that he isn't being tutored by Mr. Forrest, which Stanley decides is absolutely selfish of him, considering how good Ford's grades are, he doesn't need the help, but it seems like, if reactions are anything to go by, that he's just greedy enough to be upset about it anyways.   
  
And that assumption doesn't do wonders for Stan's mood. It's struck a chord of tension between he and his brother, so that Stan either doesn't mention his lessons with Mr. Forrest at all, or likewise, he brings up his progress just to grind the point in and make his brother feel even worse.   
  
Not his finest moments, to be sure.   
  
He's just getting so tired of Ford's attitude that he's started to instigate situations just to get it over with, and he'd be lying if he didn't admit to a little bit of glee in watching his brother struggle with his feelings, but after those moments, Stan always feels a horrible, nasty sinking feeling in his chest; he knows it's wrong to weaponize the situation like that, he knows it's wrong to hurt Ford, and eventually that guilt reaches a breaking point.   
  
They're sitting on the swing outside when Stan's guilt strikes again, but this time, instead of lashing out at Ford, he steels himself and just asks the question his heart has wanted to speak for some time, "I got somethin' I wanna ask yiz, Sixer, and I want ya to be honest." He looks up, but Ford isn't meeting his gaze. That hurts in Stan's chest, but he knows he can't expect it from Ford, as much as he'd like the contact. "Why're you so upset about Mr. Forrest?"  
  
Ford grits his teeth and glances away, shaking his head. "I'm not," he says, uselessly. He hears Stan make an annoyed noise, and he says again with more force, "I'm not. I don't know. I'm not."  
  
"Would ya stop lyin' to me already, I know ya are." Stan growls, annoyed. He clutches the chains of the swing a little harder and sighs. "C'mon--look, I know I ain't been the greatest the last couple'a weeks, and I'm sorry, I really am, but you gotta tell me what the hell is goin' on if we're gonna get through this."  
  
"I don't _know_ ," Ford says, forcefully, and then sighs. "I just don't... I don't know," he glances away again and breaks off into a mutter.   
  
"Can't hear you," Stan grunts.   
  
"I said I just don't want him to... mistreat you. Teachers have always been bad to you," Ford shrugs, staring down at the sand like he's embarrassed to admit it.  
  
Stan winces, like he'd just been lashed with a hot iron, and lowers his head. "That's why you been so weird...?" It's not as hard to believe as Stan would like, in fact the selflessness of it twists like a dagger in Stan's heart, and makes him shake his head a couple times to try to clear it. "Ah jeeze...I feel like an asshole."  
  
Ford swallows hard, twisting his hands together in his lap. "I just... you've seemed so happy, I didn't want to burst your bubble... but I don't trust him. And I'm scared you've trusted him too fast, and when he hurts you, it'll be so much worse."  
  
"I just wanna be good." Stan says, his heart tearing just speaking the words. "In a few months, you're gonna go off to school and I'm gonna--" he bites back tears and growls, "I thought ya'd be happy for me."  
  
"I'm... cautious," Ford grimaces, looking over at Stan. "I want to be happy for you, and if this works out I will be, but... since when are teachers this nice to you? I just keep waiting for the other boot to drop, and I'm... scared for you, Stanley. I want you to be good, too."  
  
Stan looks away from him, his lips curling into an angry grimace before the expression breaks and he looks deeply, desperately sad--the idea that Mr. Forrest is just being nice to him to lure him into some sort of trap really hadn't occured to him, but he feels like it should have. Were he more introspective, he'd see he's just desperate to wn the approval of any adult, even if that means stumbling blindly into a situation that could end badly.   
  
"Yeah well....guess we'll find out." He finally says the words, they're more of a gasp through unshed tears.  
  
"Just... be careful," Ford says, reaching across the short gap between their swings to close his fingers around the end of Stan's sweat shirt sleeve. "That's all I want. I just want you to be careful."  
  
"I'll do my best." Stan grunts, reaching down to grab Ford's hand. He'll keep to his word, if he can.  
  
Of course, it's never that easy. Stan's "best" has a nasty habit of never being quite good enough. His talk with Ford has put an absolutely horrible sense of dread in his chest about his upcoming lesson with Mr. Forrest, as if the teacher would be able to somehow smell it on him that his brother had wised him up to the man's scheme, and he would bring the hammer down then and there.   
  
It's that tension and dread that makes him sloppy. Normally he's more on top of his shit, sharper about paying attention to his surroundings. He'd taken too long to safely make his way through the shortcut between the buildings before the herd of students dispersed, which puts him in the unfortunate vulnerable position of being completely alone when the other end of the pass is cut off by none other than fucking Crampelter.   
  
"Hey, Pines!" he shouts, and Stan doesn't even have to look behind him to know that the larger boy's goons have closed off the other end of the pass. "Surprised to see you somewhere other than up Mr. Forrest's ass!"  
  
"Yeah, and I'm surprised to see they let ya outta your cage. Ain't you late for your afternoon feedin'?" Stan growls, squaring up to prepare for whatever's about to happen--he can feel Crampelter's friends staring at him from behind.  
  
"Hah! Good one," Crampelter fake-laughs, jabbing his finger into Stan's chest. "On your way to another _private meeting_ with him? How many of those you gotta go to before you get to second base?"  
  
Stan growls at him like an angry dog and takes a step back, "You touch me again and I'll break every one of your stupid fingers." He sets the older boy with a deep frown. "What's your obsession anyways? You wanna take it up the ass?"  
  
"I'm just here to warn you," Crampelter lifts his hands with a smug little smirk. "It'd be weird if you fucked him-- seeing as he's your _dad_ and all."  
  
That leap gives Stan pause, "Huh? Whaddaya stupid? He ain't my dad."  
  
"What, you mean you haven't heard?" Crampelter acts shocked, putting a hand to his chest. "Everyone's talking about it. Some crazy overqualified stranger comes into nowheresville New Jersey out of the fucking blue and just happens to pick up a job at our high school? A stranger who just so happens to have the same color eyes as you and your freaky fingers?"  
  
"Wh--" Stan feels suddenly exposed and small, but that only serves to puff him up big and scary so he can run Crampelter off--still, the thought niggles at the back of his mind. "Shut up, or I'm gonna pull your dick up through your nose!"  
  
"What's going on over here?" a stern voice cuts through the mean laughter that filters out of Crampelter, and the larger boy whips around to see none other than Mr. Forrest walking towards the group of boys.   
  
"Just a smoke between class, teach," Crampelter shrugs his shoulders.   
  
Mr. Forrest's same-color-as-Stan's blue eyes flick between the four boys gathered between the building and lingers on Stan's face, taking in his red cheeks and wild panicked eyes, and he looks back at Crampelter. "Mind if I bum one?"   
  
That seems to make Crampelter pause, and he frantically pats his pockets down, feeling his face glow hot. "Uhh... fresh out, sorry--"  
  
"I suspected as much," Mr. Forrest cuts him off. "I don't appreciate being lied to-- Crump, was it?"  
  
"Crampelter--" he corrects, cheeks burning.   
  
"That was it. Why don't you run along to class and leave Mr. Pines alone? He doesn't look like he wants anything to do with you," Mr. Forrest says, clasping his hands behind his back.   
  
"What?! Do I look like I need your help?" Stan shouts, his lip curling up as he growls at Mr. Forrest. "Whaddaya think? That I need ya to run to my rescue, I can handle my shit on my own, ya big stupid--argh!"   
  
Stan shoves him back by the chest and snarls at Crampelter, "You better get the hell outta here before I clean your clock-- unless ya want me to mop the floor with yiz while your boyfriends watch-- if that's the case, you got yourself a fight, cuz I'm lookin' to beat the snot outta you today."  
  
Crampelter and his goons beat a quick retreat after that, practically leaving cartoon dust clouds behind in their haste to retreat, and in just a few seconds Stan is left there alone with Mr. Forrest, who is giving him an unreadable expression, somewhere between pity and betrayal.   
  
"Mr. Pines--" he starts.  
  
"What?" Stan grouches, turning to look at Mr. Forrest, his chest heaving as he tries to breathe the anger and fire out of his lungs. "You got somethin' to say?"  
  
"I think you should get along to class," is all Mr. Forrest says, his tone even.  
  
Stanley glances around, as if he were sure Mr. Forrest is talking to someone else--he looks like he might say something, because his face softens, and panic blossoms in his eyes, but he covers it a moment later by growling "Outta my way," and he pushes past his tutor to head in the direction of his next class period, but his bravado and grumpiness hide the underlying frustration he feels with himself over the whole ordeal.  
  
It doesn't really hit him until halfway through the next period that he has a lesson with Mr. Forrest after school that afternoon. He can't go, he knows he can't, not after he yelled at the man-- god, had he really _pushed_ him? That whole encounter is kind of a blur, not to mention Crampelter's words that have been clawing at the back of his mind. He knows he can't face Mr. Forrest again, probably never.   
  
But it seems that the teacher has caught wise to the fact that he was planning on ditching, because no sooner than he's at his locker collecting his backpack to skip home than Mr. Forrest is right there, arms crossed. "Now, it looks like you were planning on missing our lesson," he says, his tone not unkind. "I know that's not true, is it Mr. Pines?"  
  
Stan can feel anger bubbling up in his chest again, but he tries to stifle it by letting it out as harmlessly as possible, with a little grunt of frustration, rather than allowing himself to yell, yet again, at Mr. Forrest. He swings his bookbag over his shoulder, and turns to face the man, not meeting his glance.   
  
"Didn't figure you'd wanna see me after today, is all," He admits in a low voice. "Wouldn't blame yiz."  
  
"If you think that's the first time I've come to blows with an angry teenager, you have another thing coming," Mr. Forrest chuckles. "I'd rather not sacrifice our momentum. I thought maybe for today's lesson we might want to get out of the school, though. The weather is forgiving and the energy here is a bit strained. We could get hot dogs at the park around the corner and snag a picnic table, if you're willing to walk with me?"  
  
Stanley still isn't meeting his gaze, his hand gripping his bookbag strap so hard that his knuckles are turning white. "If you're gonna yell at me, I'd rather we just geddit over with. I don't wanna drag this out any more than I need to--I got shit to do."  
  
"I don't plan to yell at you," Mr. Forrest says, clasping his hands behind his back. "I don't make a habit of raising my voice if I can help it."  
  
Finally, Stan looks up at him, searching his gaze for any sign or hint of a lie, but he can't find one. There's nothing glowing behind his eyes, expect sincerity and patience, but in some ways that's worse. It's not something he gets from the adults in his life, so seeing it staring him right in the face is like looking at the sun. He looks away.   
  
"If ya wanted to go get some hotdogs I'd be okay with that."  
  
Mr. Forrest smiles when Stan consents, and they make their way through a side door out of the school building. Stan is tense at first, waiting for the teacher to say something to him, but the older man seems content to walk in silence with him that slowly edges from uncomfortable into companionable as they walk across the blocks.   
  
Entering the park, Mr. Forrest pays for two hot dogs for them from a cart, and carries them to a picnic table under a shady tree. Stan notes that Mr. Forrest likes his hot dogs the same way his brother does, with onions on one side, pickle relish and mustard on the other, but he says nothing.   
  
As they sit across from eachother, Mr. Forrest allows the silence to linger a bit longer as they both work on their hot dogs, but after a couple minutes he breaks it while looking out at the people milling around the park, rather than looking right at Stan.   
  
"Would you like to talk about what happened earlier?"   
  
Stan glances over to where Mr. Forrest is looking, as if the people lingering around in the park might hold some secret to unlocking why he feels the way he does, but they don't and no amount of silence will pass between them that'll make this whole thing less awkward. He takes another bite from the big hot dog and sighs.   
  
"I dunno, what's there to talk about? I'm a dumbass."  
  
"Not that," Mr. Forrest says, still keeping his eyes turned away from Stan, for both their sakes. "What were those boys doing to you? Did they hurt you?"  
  
"What?" Stan laughs. "Ya mean Crampelter and his goons? As if they could hurt me." He puts on the tough guy act and shakes his head. "Nah, they're just a bunch'a idiots, ain't they? Who cares."  
  
"Forgive me if this is too forward, but you seemed very upset when I was passing through," Mr. Forrest says. "Did they say anything to you? They weren't bullying you about your hands, were they?"  
  
"I don't see how that matters." Stan growls, his hackles raising again. "Who cares, they're just a bunch'a idiots, like I said. Why do you care?"  
  
Mr. Forrest finally looks over at Stan, his brows furrowed. He's silent for a few moments, just looking at the boy, before he shakes his head. "You don't have a lot of adults in your corner back home, do you Mr. Pines?"  
  
Stan sits back, as far as he can on the bench, when Mr. Forrest says that, his eyes darting all over the older man's face, trying to read him. "What--how's that any of your business?"  
  
"You've been very guarded since day one," Mr. Forrest says, leaning on his elbows on the table, folding his hands together. "Every attempt I've made to be kind has been met with your ire. Traditionally, that sort of behavior comes from kids who have learned to distrust adults."  
  
Everything in Stan is screaming about what Ford had said--that Mr. Forrest is going to betray him like every other adult in his life, and right now he's waiting, as his brother had said, for the other boot to drop, but if there even is another boot, he can't see a sign of it, not even a shoelace.   
  
Stanley gulps down what remains of his hotdog, still painfully hungry, but he doesn't mind, instead he relaxes on the bench seat of the picnic table and tries to let his trust for Mr. Forrest win over the anxiety pinging through his head.   
  
"I guess....you're not wrong." Stan says, his voice dropping from that familiar growl, to something softer. "I dunno where to start."  
  
"I had a rough home life, myself," Mr. Forrest says softly. "My father was cruel and my mother was... well, she wasn't much of anything. Too battered herself to raise her head high enough to see what was happening to her children."  
  
"That's kinda how my life is-- I can never do anything right for Pops. It's like, I dunno. He's always so hard on me, it's like he hates me..." Stan looks down at his fingers, flexing them, then his eyes fall to Mr. Forrest's hands. "Crampelter said somethin' to me today, I dunno how to even ask yiz about it."  
  
"I'm listening," Mr. Forrest says kindly. "Take your time."  
  
"Guess there's a rumor runnin' around the school that you're--" it feels so absurd suddenly. Stan flexes his fingers again. "That you're my dad, and you're comin' back, I dunno cuz ya feel guilty about leavin' me here or somethin'." He tacks on quickly, as if to qualify, "And it'd make sense ya know?" he laughs. "Cuz my dad hates me so much, maybe he hates me 'cuz Ma cheated on him with you--maybe me and Ford ain't even twins. I dunno. I dunno, it's stupid..."   
  
Stan looks up at him, hoping to hear something, anything. If Mr. Forrest really were his father, maybe he could take him away from this place, he and Ford both. Wishful, teenage logic.  
  
Mr. Forrest's furrowed brow raises in surprise. "Oh," he says, and he's just quiet for a moment after that, like he's trying to do math in his head. He chuckles and then looks out at the people again, shaking his head. "I wish I could claim that was true. Unfortunately, it's just high school students being horrible to one another, as usual. Our shared mutation isn't as rare as they might believe."  
  
He looks back at Stan now, his expression bittersweet. "And lovely as I'm sure your mother is, historically women haven't been my type."  
  
"Huh," Stan says, disappointment apparent in his voice, but he recovers quickly by laughing, "Well, how's about you adopt me and my brother, huh? I bet you and him'd get along."  
  
It occurs to Mr. Forrest a moment too late that he might have made a mistake by coming out to Stan so suddenly. His implicit trust in the boy loosened his tongue without thought, and he realizes too late how foolish a move that could have been if this was a part of the multiverse in which Stan didn't share his inclination, but it seems that it went over without a hitch. With his heart pounding with the anxiety of what could have almost been, he shakes his head and laughs.   
  
"You'd have an easier time of filing for emancipation. The process of fighting for custody of 17 year olds is challenging and lengthy, you'd reach your birthday before it was even over and it would be moot." He pauses then when Stan furrows his brow at him. "Oh. You were joking."  
  
"Uuh, yeah Poindexter, I was." Stan rolls his eyes, then realizes what he'd just said, and rubs the back of his neck. He isn't sure why that nickname had come to mind, considering it's usually applicable only to his brother, so he bites his tongue. "Anyways, my brother's goin' off to college soon. It wouldn't matter much of ya did."  
  
"With any luck, so will you be," Mr. Forrest says, taking the last bite of his hot dog and reaching into his bag to pull out their lesson materials. "Let's continue working on your trig today, I think you've almost nailed down the difference between sine and cosine."  
  
The rest of their lesson goes like normal, and Stan climbs into his car to drive home feeling lighter than he had when they started. He's not going so far as to claim Mr. Forrest is his _friend_ , but he's definitely finally getting the sense that he isn't his enemy. 


	3. Chapter 3

Stan breezes through the next couple of lessons they have to together, and Mr. Forrest notices that he seems more easy-going than he had recently. The talk between them must have had some effect on him, because he's doubling down in his studies, and working even harder to get his homework done on time, and to understand the formulas and equations that Mr. Forrest is assigning him.   
  
But even so, the work just gets harder from then on out, because he has a lot of catching up to do. Stan is years behind in math and science, with a cumulative school system that neither cares or pays attention to such things, so catching him up on all that missed time is a process, but he seems to be willing now more than ever, to work through it.   
  
As the work gets more difficult, Stan struggles more and more, but it's his attitude that's changed really, from what Mr. Forrest can tell. He's more keen on working through things, he gives up less, but who knows how long the steam will last.   
  
It's one afternoon, an average day, when that focus seems to falter.   
  
They're working on calculus, and Stan's struggling to understand the function. He's written it out several times, but applying it to an equation always ends in the wrong answer, and Mr. Forrest can tell he's getting agitated by the way his leg is jangling with irritation, and he's bouncing the eraser of his pencil off the notebook in front of him. He's muttering to himself, brow furrowed, angry and getting angrier, feeling like an absolute idiot every time he gets something wrong.  
  
"You're still thinking too big, Mr. Pines," his teacher has been patient with him this whole time, but Stan is starting to exhaust, and he can tell. "DY over DX represents the quotient of two infinitesimally small numbers, you're still applying them to Real numbers. DY is an infint small change in y caused by an infinitesimally small change dx applied to x--"  
  
He pauses when he sees Stan look up with a helpless expression sagging in his eyes, and he smiles softly. "More nerd talk, I apologize. I sense you're losing your patience. Ordinarily I would let us move to a different subject, but tomorrow is  your math test for this quarter, and if you can nail this down I'm confident you can pull a B, at least."  
  
Stan's eyes recover from where they've floated in two opposite directions, and he shakes his head, "Sorry, wut? I couldn't hear ya over--uuh......." he looks down at his work. "Infinit-mes-anally. What's that even mean anyways?"  
  
"Infinitesimally," Ford corrects with a soft chuckle. "It means really really small. Too small for us to even comprehend without calculus-- that's why it was invented. To deal with fractions and decimals so small that we have trouble conceptualizing it on our own."  
  
"Why's anybody need to know anything that small anyways? If it's so small we can't even see it without calculus, why do we even need it? No offense, but an elephant don't think about an ant, does it? So why do we gotta think about this junk?" Finally giving up, he tosses his pencil down onto the notebook and breathes out a heavy sigh, clearly very frustrated with the entire affair.  
  
Mr. Forrest smiles kindly. "Those are exactly the kind of questions that shape infrastructure," he says, waggling his pen in Stan's direction. "The answer is because somewhere along the way, the state decided you need to know these things before they'll legally and socially consider you an adult. The only people who really need to know how to do calculus and trig are mathemeticians, scientists, and people like me who pass on the useless knowledge to the next generation who also largely won't use it. Truthfully all you need to know is how to do the kind of math you'd need at a grocery store, unless you plan to go into medicine, technology or science. However, to get a good grade, you need to pretend this matters to you until you graduate."  
  
"Lookit me Doc." Stan says, gesturing to himself. "Do I look like the kinda guy ya want in an operatin' room, or pilotin' a space shuttle. Not this guy--I'm lookin' at a career in boxin', if your tutorin' gets my grades up high enough and I get lucky."   
  
He scoffs, but laughs a moment later, blue eyes twinkling as he takes Mr. Forrest in, "Unless ya think I need calculus to figure out whether or not I can punch a guy's back teeth out in one hit-- maybe you could calculate the wind resistence in my fist, ya knucklehead." Without really thinking about it, Stan whips his hand out and punches Mr. Forrest on the arm playfully. "C'mon, I bet ya know how to throw a punch. Ya got some arms on yiz."  
  
"You can punch me later, for now let's keep working on your calc," Mr. Forrest smiles, swatting away one of Stan's fists. He watches the boy sag a little bit, though his smile doesn't disappear right away, and he glances down at their workbook thoughtfully. "I can see that you're struggling to motivate yourself through this... what if I tack on a little incentive?"  
  
"Incentive, huh? What kinda incentive? I don't take bribes ya know--unless they're over fifty bucks--then I'll consider it." Stanley sits back in his seat and looks Mr. Forrest up and down, wondering silently what he's planning.  
  
"I wasn't thinking money," the teacher laughs. "Something performative, perhaps. If you can buckle down and nail this before the end of our lesson, I'll do something for you. Something of your choice. Box with you in front of your gym class, or wear a bow in my hair all day tomorrow, I'll call you _my liege_ for 24 hours if it'll motivate you to lock down your calculus."  
  
"My liege, huh? As much as I like that, Doc...I dunno. Might not go over well with the rumors runnin' around the school. Tell ya what, though. If I can nail this shit to the wall, you gotta draw a face on your hand and teach class by talkin' with it-- and ya gotta do a funny voice." Stan crosses his arms, clearly very proud of himself.  
  
Mr. Forrest grins from ear to ear. "You're on, Pines," he says, reaching across the table, offering Stan his hand for a shake. "If you can manage 10 equations in a row without error, I'll teach class, I'll do exactly that."  
  
Stan wraps his near-identical six-fingered hand around Mr. Forrest's and nods, "You got it, Teach--but you better be workin' on that voice, cuz Stan Pines never loses a bet."   
  
And he's right.   
  
It takes a while, a lot of trial and error, but every time he flags in frustration, the idea of Mr. Forrest making good on his bet renews him and he takes a lap before coming back to work with a soda or snack from the vending machine in the hallway. Finally, after another hour of solid work and nearing the end of their lesson, he nails down those ten quations in a row, and he's breezed through them despite his difficulties from before. He's very triumphant about it, really grinding in his point about never losing a bet, thrilled by the prospect, and equally happy that Mr. Forrest seems to be eager to go along with the joke, where Stanley thought he might have been stuffy about it.  
  
For the first time in a long time, Stan actually _looks forward_ to school the next day. His overall depression with the school system as well as the frequency that he skips class have both gone down since Mr. Forrest started teaching, but as Stan heads home after their lesson, he finds himself actually excited for what the next day will bring for the first time in ages.   
  
Part of him was afraid that Mr. Forrest would back out at the last second, sure that he'd overestimated the man's sense of humor, but sure enough when he makes it to class, Mr. Forrest is behind his desk, drawing on his hand.   
  
He stands up to announce to the class that after losing a bet, he's sworn to teach class through his hand puppet, and they spend the first couple minutes of class naming their temporary teacher by committee-- Hugh Jass it is, and Mr. Forrest would have had it no other way. He teaches the day's lesson with an over-the-top french accent, and even draws a butt on the opposite side of his hand at one point, the entire class dissolving into laughter every time he would turn to the board to write something down.  
  
It's one of the only times Stan can ever remember laughing so hard at school. The students are all mimicking the french accent on their way out of the classroom after the bell rings, and Mr. Forrest smiles as he works the pen off his hand with a wet wipe.  
  
Stan approaches his desk after the bell rings, and the last students are filing out, and grins ear to ear, holding tight to the strap of his bookbag, "I can't believe ya did! Ya actually did it!" He laughs, "Ah jeeze...I thought you was gonna chicken out the last second, but ya didn't. Proud'a you."  
  
That brings a genuine smile to Mr. Forrest's face, and he shakes his head. "Never underestimate a Forrest, my good man," he says, dropping the grey-stained wet wipe in the trash. "I'm a man of my word and a man of honor. I would never chicken out."  
  
"Yeah, and you was actually funny." Stan praises again. "Not that--ya know. I dunno. I just didn't expect yiz to have uh....sense of humor." Again, the youth laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, "Ah jeeze, that sounded bad, huh? All's I mean is you're kinda stuffy, ya know? It was nice to see ya let loose for once...I dunno."   
  
It's then that Stan feels a sort of strange warmth blossom in his belly as he looks at Mr. Forrest--a very particular feeling he's only felt for....well. He tries to put that out of his mind, and focus n the moment instead, even as those butterflies in his tummy take flight.   
  
"I can't imagine our old teacher doin' anything like that. He was too strict." Stan drops down int the chair beside the teacher's desk and shrugs again. "I guess you're okay, Doc."  
  
"That's high praise, from you," Mr. Forrest says as he wipes down the board to prepare for the next class period. "I'm really not as stuffy as I seem, it's just the turtlenecks. They put off a certain vibe."  
  
"Yeah hey, what's with that anyways? You hidin' somethin' under all those layers? A prehensile nipple or something?" Stan slaps the desk with a laugh, wiping a tear from his eye. "Oh man, I kill myself. Prehensile nipple."  
  
Mr. Forrest actually looks a touch uncomforable for a moment, and he clears his throat as he sets his chalkboard eraser down. "Would you mind helping me bang these out the window?" he asks, handing two of them off to Stan and pointedly ignoring his question completely.  
  
Stanley raises a brow, but he doesn't press the issue immediately, instead he takes the erasers and opens the window, clapping the things together while keeping his head well away from the chalk cloud. "Ya know, ya don't gotta tell me....I was just curious."  
  
Mr. Forrest sighs softly. "It's nothing personal. Just... lots of old memories and bad decisions. I don't like to talk about it."  
  
"Yeah, my Ma won't let me get a tattoo either." Stan laughs, trying to lighten the mood, he gives Mr. Forrest a shifty little smile, and notes how closed off the man's become. "Hey c'mon, don't be so serious, Doc. Sorry I asked-- just forget about it, alright?"  
  
Mr. Forrest offers Stan a soft smile as he accepts the cleaned erasers back from Stan. "Thank you for the help. You should run along before you miss lunch."  
  
"Alright, smell ya later." Stan says, swinging his bookbag back over his shoulder and sees himself out of the room, stealing one last glance over his shoulder at the teacher before he does, still feeling that strange warmth in his belly.  
  
He suspected the warmth would go away with time, especially with the coming weekend. With his lessons on tuesdays and thursdays, the four-day break in between tutoring sessions should have given him ample time to digest the butterflies, but come tuesday he sees his teacher again and they come right back in full force. And that, he supposes, it something he's just going to have to learn to live with.   
  
Stan's grades only improve from there on out. Something in the way Mr. Forrest had handled the entire situation has made his trust in the teacher solid. Ford's words of warning are long forgotten, the only time he really considers them is late at night, when there's nothing to drown them out, and even then they're simply a whisper in the back of his mind, something that keeps him occupied when he has a quiet moment to reflect--but he hardly takes them seriously.   
  
No adult at their school would have ever given him as much leeway as Mr. Forrest has, not even as a preamble to shoot him down later. Ford's still weird about his presence in their lives, but Stan can't figure on why, apart from the obvious which had already been stated by his brother. It nags at him sometimes how terse Ford is over the whole thing, which makes it hard for Stan to shake the notion that he really is just jealous of the help he's getting, but he tries his best not to believe that. He has to-- Ford's one of the only people in the world who believes in him.   
  
One of two, that is.   
  
Mr. Forrest makes it no secret that he's in his corner. Every chance he gets, he's piling praises on him for a job well done, and spending time with him that, by all accounts, maybe a teacher shouldn't be spending  if he had any concern for looking professional, but Stan eats it up. For years he's been starving for attention from every adult in his life. Mr. Forrest's attention to his needs is the nourishment he's been craving for so long, but there's an undercurrent even to that that takes awhile for Stan to really, truly recognize.   
  
He feels it in the way his belly flutters every time Mr. Forrest looks at him-- only one person in the whole world has ever looked at him the way that man does, and that's his brother. But when they share a moment alone, when they're quietly working on equations, and Stan's listening to the low hum of Mr. Forrest's voice, his brain turns to mush and his belly twitches in that familiar, private way-- that's when he knows, maybe he's in a little too deep with the teacher, but Stan's always been led by his heart, and although he recognizes that he could never act on the feelings, they're nice to have all the same and he doesn't want to trade them for anything in the world right now.  
  
If Mr. Forrest picks up on those feelings, he has the decency to never say anything about it, at least. He doesn't seem to feel weird hanging around Stanley either, if he is aware, and some part of Stan has to assume (or maybe hope) that he knows. After all, the teacher had trusted him enough to come out to him in a climate where they're both aware of how dangerous for one's health that sort of thing could be if it broke bad. Surely he wouldn't have told Stan something so deeply personal and dangerous if he didn't have some inkling that Stan was of a similar persuasion...? It's a thought that keeps him warm at night, anyway.   
  
He takes care not to let it ruin their lessons, in any case. The last thing he needs to do is ruin his one chance at finishing high school on a high note because he couldn't keep his brain out of his dick and vice versa. He throws himself into his lessons with determination, no small part of his motivation being the praise he recieves from Mr. Forrest for a job well done.   
  
They start to shake things up somewhere in the middle, taking their lessons away from the school at least once every other week. Mr. Forrest claims that the change in scenery breaks the monotony of the routine and encourages active engagement from Stan, but while Stan privately thinks he could sit in a boiler room with Mr. Forrest every day and manage to feel plenty _engaged_ , he isn't about to protest the teacher taking him out to the pier or to a cafe.   
  
On one unseasonably hot late-October evening, Mr. Forrest takes Stan to Flat Rock, a well-hidden little watering hole of a river a ways inland between the trees at the edge of town, a place Stan was sure only kids and teens knew about, which only served to solidify Mr. Forrest's coolness. He brings a small picnic of sandwiches and sodas and they lay a blanket out on a rock with their shoes and socks off in order to enjoy the sunshine glittering off the water while they work.   
  
Stan seems fairly distracted by how badly he wants to get in the water, but Mr. Forrest keeps him on track, reclaiming his attention every time it wanders in the direction of the water.   
  
"C'mon, can't we just paddle around a little before we get into the lesson?" Stan groans theatrically. He looks out over the crystal clear water and sighs. "Why'd ya bring me here if we can't take a dive, huh? Ain't you hot in all those layers, anyways? I'm hot."   
  
Not really thinking about whether or not it's proper, Stan reaches down to the hem of his shirt and tugs the white tee off over his head, leaving him bare chested in the midday sun--he's heavy with muscle and fat in equal measure, with a generous dusting of brown hair in a V down his chest and over his substantial belly, with freckles across his shoulders where the sun has touched him previously.   
  
"C'mon, why don't you take yours off too--let's get comfortable and relax. Nothin's stoppin us, right?" Stanley lounges back and stretches out with a groan. "We got all day, don't we?"  
  
"I brought you here for a change of scenery," Mr. Forrest says. Stan could swear his ears are pinker than they were a minute ago. "Give me one hour of solid focus, and then we can see about getting in the water, deal?"  
  
"Deal. But you gotta take off your shirt too, c'mon." Stan goads, hitting him on the shoulder, a bit harder than necessary. "You gotta be boilin' in that turtle neck--let loose a little. It ain't gonna kill ya."  
  
"I'm not going to do that," Mr. Forrest says with humor in his voice. "Now focus up."  
  
 To Stan's credit, he does actually focus up as they work together to come up with a few mnemonic devices for a couple sections of the periodic table, and then switch gears to help him with the parts of calculus that are still giving him a struggle. They eat their sandwiches and drink their soda, and somehow despite sitting in the heat, Mr. Forrest never seems to sweat or even get warm despite the sweater.   
  
An hour and some change passes before they realize the time is up, and Mr. Forrest has no hope of reining in Stan's focus again. He sends the boy to go splashing into the river while he dutifully rolls up his pants to his knees and wades into the water.   
  
"You know, I didn't bring any towels," he calls out to Stan. "You're going to soak the upholstery in my car."  
  
"That's _your_ problem, Doc!" Stan shouts from his spot in the river, where he's come up for air, his dark hair glistening chestnut brown with beads of water tumbling down his bull neck and clinging to the hair on his chest.   
  
"Why don't ya come in, the water's fine!" He splashes around a bit, making a show of it. "Let your hair down! Whaddaya afraid of?"  
  
"Afraid of ruining the interior of my car, for one," Mr. Forrest says, though there's laughter in his voice as he wades in Stan's direction. "And what about you? Aren't you worried about the state of those seats in your caddie?"  
  
Stan's belly gives an excited thrum at the mention of his car, and that familiar tingle settles low in his guts-- Mr. Forrest's been looking at his car if he's versed enough to know the interior so well. He knew he'd chosen well when Filbrick had found him a car to fix up.   
  
"The Stanmobile? She's a classic, she can take anything." He grins, swimming over to the edge of the river where he comes to sit beside his teacher, dripping wet on the rocks. "C'mon--at least take your shirt off. I never seen somebody wear a turtleneck to swim, ya gotta be swelterin' in that thing."  
  
"Wading is just fine for me," Mr. Forrest says. "You swim around all you want. I'll just perch over there on that rock," he gestures to a nice, flat space in the middle of the river where the water isn't high enough to touch, the perfect place to stretch out and enjoy the late autumn heat.   
  
Halfway across the river, however, it seems that mother nature has other ideas. His foot skids on a slippery, algea-covered flat rock and he goes splashing down into the two feet of water up to his knees with a whoop of surprise.   
  
From across the way, Stan sees him go down, and isn't even thinking of his teacher's wet clothes, but rather is worried about the state of his head. He rushes over and grabs Mr. Forrest under the arms and hefts him up, helping him out of the river whilst simultaneously checking his head for injury.   
  
"Are you okay?" Stan asks, a bit panicked. "Holy hell, ya went down like a lead balloon!"  
  
"Oh, I've had worse," Mr. Forrest says, catching his glasses out of the water before they have a chance to get crushed or lost, and he crawls up onto the rok. "Nothing damaged but my pride, I'm afraid. Thwarted by a bit of algea. Not my finest work."  
  
Nevertheless he's smiling as he sits on his butt on the rock and starts to wring out his pant legs. Stan feels pretty guilty for trying to make him take his shirt off, and a little bit gross after the fact, the pang twisting in his guts as he watches his teachers wring out. He sits down on the rock beside him and chuckles.   
  
"Bet you're nice and cool now though, huh Doc? Listen....sorry for uh, tryin' to get ya outta your clothes. I dunno what's wrong with me."  
  
Mr. Forrest takes pause then, and just looks across the rock at the boy. He looks at him for such an extended period of time that Stan actually starts to feel the need to squirm, or break the silence somehow, but it's finally Mr. Forrest who speaks first, and in typical fashion, he breezes right past every one of Stan's insecurities with such laser efficiency, it's like he has a guidebook on how to avoid embarrassing the boy.   
  
"Have you ever heard of the multiverse theory, Mr. Pines?"  
  
"Uuh, I might'a heard about it once in passin'. Poindexter's interested in that kinda stuff, but I couldn't tell ya what it means." Stan scratches blunt nails over the back of his neck and glances away, looking out over the late afternoon sun as it glistens on the still water of the river pool. "What is it?" He finally asks, not meeting the man's eyes.  
  
"The infinite multiverse is a thought concept where every single decision that every single person makes who has ever lived, is alive, or will live, creates an entirely separate universe. Some of them are so close together you'd never be able to tell them apart, and some are so vastly different you'd never recognize them. For every decision you make, no matter how insignificant or major, another branch shoots off in another direction." he plucks at the center of his wet sweater. "For instance, I just fell in the river. There's a universe out there so similar to this one, that the only different decision I made is that I decided to stay on the bank over there and didn't fall. But because there's one divergence from our timeline, it creates an entirely new branch on the tree. Do you follow?"  
  
Stan makes a face, his nose wrinkling, "No offense Doc, but that's hard to swallow," he shrugs, "But I think I understand."  
  
"Well, it's just a theory," Mr. Forrest chuckles. "Assuming it's true, we aren't the ones who create the multiverse splits, we're only a... a byproduct of it. Every reality already exists, every event is happening both simultaneously, and to the future and past of us. It's... confusing, I won't pretend it isn't. To understand it one must eliminate the concept of time existing only in a straight line that moves in one direction. When you derealize that, then it becomes much simpler to understand. In our reality, where we're sitting right here and now, every divergence from our timeline feels like a copy of our world-- but every other version of us would think the same of us, in relation to them. To them, we are the divergence, and they are the original world."  
  
Stan feels a certain sort of panic in his chest, to think that there's other versions of himself--copies, divergent timelines and alternate selves, co-existing in the same space, at different times, on different wavelengths. More of him. That he isn't the definite article at all, but a copy of a copy, of a copy. The idea doesn't sit well in his chest.   
  
"So why're you tellin' me this?" Stan asks, uneasy.  
  
"I only ask because... well, I think about it a lot," Mr. Forrest says, hooking his knees up and crossing his arms on them as he looks out at the water. "You know if the multiverse theory is true, there are worlds where you don't live in Glass Shard Beach, where your parents decided to move to New York or Pennsylvania. There are worlds where you were born a girl. There are worlds where you have five fingers. Or some where you were never born at all."  
  
Stan takes a deep breath, "That's horrifyin'." it's all he can manage to say for a few breaths. "I don't even wanna think about that-- all those other versions of me. If it's true, how do I even know if I'm the _real_ Stan anyways? Thinkin' about it makes my head feel weird."  
  
Mr. Forrest glances over at him with a soft smile. "You are the real Stan," he says, looking back out at the water. "But so is every other version of you. They're all real. We're all real. There was never any original copy of you that the rest were molded from, you simply existed everywhere, all at once, in every reality. It's... difficult to conceptualize." He looks over at Stan again with a quiet laugh. "It's only a theory, anyway."  
  
"I _am_ the real me," Stan insists with a growl. "This is makin' me feel weird."   
  
He shudders, rubbing his shoulders with arms crossed over his chest. "Why're you tellin' me this?" He asks again, trying to press for an explanation. Something about this feels important, otherwise why would Mr. Forrest have brought it up out of the blue?  
  
"Maybe I'm trying to foster the next generation of science fiction authors," Mr. Forrest gives Stan a coy smile. "Or maybe I'm just a nerd. Hard to say. In any case, in all the multiple universes that might exist out there... I'm happy to be living in this one right here and right now, Sixer."  
  
"Sixer?" Stan looks down at his hands, then back up at Mr. Forrest-- that hot pit in his stomach blossoms, and he can feel it growing, consuming his chest and his face, which turn red all the way up to his ears as he watches the older fellow. When he can't hold his gaze anymore, Stan glances away with a chuckle and swallows hard. "Ah jeeze...."  
  
Mr. Forrest reaches out to hook an arm around his neck and yanks him in for a hug that's mostly headlock. "Don't turn to pudding on me now, boy, we have the entire rest of the semester to get through."  
  
Stan leans his weight into the older man, and laughs, "Sorry Mr. Forrest...I just--ya know. You're somethin' else."  
  
"You know, I think when it's just the two of us like this... it'd be okay if you called me Clifford," the teacher says, looking down at the boy with a fond smile.  
  
"Clifford, huh? What about Cliff, or is that pushin' my luck?" Stan asks, taking the moment to just bask in the warmth of being side by side with one of his favorite people.  
  
"Clifford will do just fine, you little shit," Mr. Forrest says, knocking his shoulder into Stan's.  
  
Stan wraps his arm tight around Clifford's waist and holds him like that, hip to hip, his heart racing. He can hardly believe how close they're sitting, or how good it feels to be here with him, but it's happening. This is real.   
  
"Clifford it is."


	4. Chapter 4

After air drying for a little while, and talking with Clifford for a bit, Stan hops into the caddy and drives with the top down on the way home, both to dry his clothes and feel the wind through his hair. He feels more alive than he's felt in a long time--being with Mr. Forrest makes him feel like he's on top of the world, he's only felt that way a handful of times, and he just wants to hold onto it for as long as possible.   
  
The glee doesn't even wear off as he parks the car and puts the top back up, heading up the stairs to the little apartment above his father's shop--if he's put off by Filbrick's mood, he doesn't show it, and makes a beeline for their bedroom, tossing his stuff onto the floor next to their door like he always does before heading in and flopping down onto the bottom bunk of their shared bed, and just....laughing.  
  
Ford, from his place on the top bunk doing his homework, seems to sour as soon as Stan comes in. He leans out over the top rung to look at his brother on the bottom bunk and squints down at him.   
  
"Are you... wet?" his nose wrinkles.  
  
"Yeah!" Stan shouts, and he sits up so fast he bonks his head on the bed on the way up, but doesn't seem deterred. He just rubs the spot and looks up at Ford from below. "Clifford took me to Flat Rock today--he ended up fallin' in, and I helped him up."  
  
Ford's brow furrows. "Sorry... _Clifford?_ You're on a first name basis with our teacher, now?"  
  
Stan, already sensing his brother's hostility, clicks his tongue with a roll of his eyes, "Yeah, so? We hang out together a lot, why shouldn't we be?"  
  
 _"Hang out?"_ Ford scowls, and his voice is accusatory. "I was under the impression these were lessons. You went on a _date_ with our teacher. Is he even _tutoring_ you anymore? Is this a _gay_ thing?"  
  
"Whoa, hey-- what the hell, Poindexter?" Stanley gets out of the bunk, just so he can look at his brother more carefully. "Why're you so mad?"  
  
"All you do is talk about _Clifford_ anymore," Ford throws a pillow at his brother, his hands shaking. "You're _my_ brother, not his!"  
  
Stanley ducks, but the pillow hits him square in the chest anyways. He bends down to pick it up and dusts it off, looking away from Ford. He swallows thickly then and asks, "Are you jealous...?"  
  
"No, I'm not _jealous!"_ Ford's voice cracks, and his eyes burn with unshed tears. "I'm _upset!_ You're-- you're _stupid_ you're so stupid! Some teacher comes along and starts marinating you with compliments and you turn into-- into his lapdog!"  
  
"He's my _friend!"_ Stanley shouts, throwing the pillow right back at Ford, but it hits the wall behind him with a resounding, muted, thump. "Why're you so mad that I'm makin' a friend, huh? What is it? You're scared of me gettin' hurt? I don't buy that for a second. What's this really about, huh Poindexter? What're you so pissed off about?"  
  
"You like him more than me!" the tears spill over despite Ford's best efforts to keep them in check, and they roll down his cheeks. "He's tall and interesting and well spoken and mysterious and you like him more than me--" his voice breaks off and he curls up on his bunk, hugging his knees to his face and hiding behind them with a wheezy whimper.  
  
"Now who's the stupid one," Stan growls, but he regrets it a second later. "How could ya ever think I'd like somebody more than you....why can't I like both of yiz?"  
  
Ford doesn't emerge from his thigh-cave, but his shoulders begin to shake. He whimpers something, but it's too quiet and muffled to be heard.  
  
"C'mon...." Stan mumurs, and he crosses the room to the ladder on their bunks and climbs up to sit in bed with his brother, but he doesn't touch him. "Stanford--I still--you're still my best friend. You know that, right? Ya gotta know that."  
  
Ford finally turns his face enough to be heard, and his voice is thick with tears. "He's going to send you to some far-flung fancy school in Switzerland or something and I'm never gonna see you again," he gasps out, tears still leaking from his eyes.  
  
"Me? I ain't a genius like you, Poindexter. If anybody's goin' halfway across the world to some fancy school, it's you." Stan sits forward on his knees and tentatively reaches out to lay a hand on Ford's shoulder. "Do ya even know what we've been doin'? Would it help if ya knew?"  
  
"I don't _care_ ," Ford finally lifts his head, his face red and wet. "You've been spending so much time with him and I-- I'm just-- here, home, _alone_ all the time, and dad--" his breath hitches again. "I don't _like_ him, Stanley... I get a bad, bad feeling about him."  
  
Ford's comment about Clifford is overridden by the previous statement, "Wait, whaddabout dad?" Stan scoots closer. "Whaddid he do to ya? Stanford, what happened?"  
  
Ford just ducks his face back into his knees, shaking his head, but he leans sideways into his brother's chest.  
  
"Okay. No more tutorin'--no  more visitin' Clifford. This is the end, I'm done. I can't just be throwin' ya to dad's mercy-- what if he..." Stanley trails off, horrified by the consequences his seemingly innocous actions have wrought, and he lays down beside Ford, pulling him up against his broad chest. "I'm so sorry, Stanford." He whispers, his voice hoarse with tears. "I'm sorry."  
  
Ford just shakes in his arms, feeling incredibly small and frail. "I could tutor you instead," he offers, his voice trembling. "I... I know it's lame to be tutored by your brother, but nobody has to know. And I promise I'll never make fun of you, not once. I don't want you to fail, you-- you've been doing so good."  
  
"Yeah okay," Stan says, his voice tight. It's such a hard thing to agree to. Though he'd never tell his brother, he'll miss Clifford's company, but he can't just leave Stanford alone, to be subjected to the will of their father. "Let's do it. You an' me."  
  
"You and me," Ford repeats, propping up on his elbow at Stan's side in order to look him in the face. Despite the tension of the last couple of minutes, he's suddenly made viscerally aware by the proximity he shares with his brother. The closeness, the warmth and pressure of his body, the circle of his arms around his waist and how close they're laying... it was one thing to lay like this when they were little boys, but now that they're men swiftly approaching adulthood, it feels... different.   
  
He lays his hand on Stan's chest, swallowing hard, and though his eyes are still wet and his face is still red, just witnessing the adoration in his brother's eyes that he knows are mirrored in his own makes him feel... handsome. He repeats it again, softer. "Just you and me."  
  
The next day at school, Stanley avoids Mr. Forrest as much as he can. When the teacher asks questions, he's no longer quick to raise his hand, and after the bell rings, he doesn't linger in the room to talk to him after class-- nor does he say a word to him after school, and when their scheduled tutoring session crops up, it passes as if it had never been scheduled at all.   
  
And that's how the week goes. Stan refuses to even acknowledge him, but there's pain in his eyes when he does. It's night and day, between the way they'd sat close and comfortable together on that river rock, and now, with Stan being cold and distant, refusing even to say hello when coming into class, refusing to even spare a snarky remark during the lesson.   
  
And where Mr. Forrest is absent, Ford is there to pick up the slack, taking his rightful place, right beside Stan like he was always meant to be. His brother tutors him after school, just as he'd promised, and Stan takes the opportunity to mend things with him, while trying to supress the real pain he feels from severing ties with Clifford, who he still has feelings for, if he's honest. But Stan's not being honest with himself these days. It's easier to lie.   
  
Easier not only for him, but Ford as well, who seems happier now that Clifford's out of the picture-- and Stan tries to take that as the silver lining in all of this. Sure he'd lost a friend, but he'd gained back the companionship of his very first and true friend. When he was being tutored by Clifford, his brother had been miserable every day, snapping at him and trying to kill any joy he'd had from his sessions, but now he's lively and happy again, soft toward Stan and gentle with how he talks to him--and Stanley can't blame him. If Ford had been leaving him alone with Filbrick, he might have acted the same, so he holds no ill will toward his brother for expressing himself the way he did--it isn't as if he'd known any better.  
  
It takes a week for Mr. Forrest to find the time to corner him. It was after a particularly bad night with their father in which he was screamed at well into the wee hours for the report he'd gotten from his teacher that he'd been skipping out on lessons (not that Filbrick was even paying for them) and he'd barely gotten a wink of sleep all night. He falls asleep in class propped on his hand, and only comes to when he feels a hand shake him by the shoulder. Startling awake, he looks up to see Clifford standing over him with a worried expression.   
  
"Rough night?" he asks Stan, his voice soft. The classroom is empty, even Ford is gone.  
  
"Mmgh." Stan answers, bending down to gather his things groggily, brows furrowed deeply. He doesn't even take a second glance at Mr. Forrest before he's getting out of his chair to leave the room.  
  
"Stanley," Mr. Forrest reaches out to take the boy by the wrist, quite sure that he wouldn't stop just if he just asked him to. "If I did something wrong--" he starts, and then stops, and tries again. "If I was too friendly--" again, he stops, and takes a deep breath. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."  
  
Stan shoves him off forcibly, "Don't fuckin' touch me-- I didn't ask ya to touch me!" He squares up, as if readying himself for a fight, his shoulders broadening, chest puffing out as he stands straight backed and looks Mr. Forrest in the eye. "Leave me alone."  
  
Mr. Forrest looks like he's been hit already, his expression stricken for one harrowing moment before he brings it back under control into something professional, and even a bit cold.   
  
"My apologies," he says, his voice soft. "I shouldn't have touched you. I've been too... forward. I've forgotten my professionalism. I urge you not to give up on your lessons, you've been doing so well. Please don't give up now."  
  
Stan's fight goes out of him-- he feels suddenly torn between two people, with Ford pulling him in one direction, and Mr. Forrest pulling him in the other. He wheezes out a pained breath, head dropping and he falls back into the chair next to his teacher's desk, head sinking into his hands--and he starts to cry.   
  
"I dunno what to do..." Stanley mutters. "Either way, it's wrong."  
  
Mr. Forrest is taken aback by Stan's reaction, and he takes a knee in front of the chair in order to look the hunched boy in the face. "Stanley," he says softly, desperate to touch the boy but unwilling to cause him to lash out again. "What's going on? Talk to me."  
  
"I like ya...I really like ya, Clifford." Stan takes in a shaking breath, still holding his head. "But my brother--me goin' off to study means he's left alone with our dad and--and he's just so upset alla time if I spend time with yiz, but if I spend time with him, you get upset. I dunno what to do--I dunno what to do!"   
  
In one motion, Stan hefts a book off of Mr. Forrests desk and tosses it across the room where it sails and hits the wall, harmlessly scattering pages and landing upright with a flutter of paper, and afterwards Stanley promptly starts to sob, openly.  
  
Mr. Forrest doesn't seem perturbed by the book being thrown, but it does crease his expression even further with concern.   
  
"Your brother," he says, his voice even. "Your brother is _upset_ that you've been taking tutoring?"  
  
"He's upset--cuz he thinks..." Stan's crying too hard to talk, so he just growls under his breath and tries to calm himself down, wiping his eyes on the back of one fuzzy forearm. "He thinks I like ya more than him."  
  
"I see," Mr. Forrest's voice goes a bit hard, then. "You spend four hours out of your entire week focusing on your own education, and he throws a fit. Heaven forbid you should spend any amount of time on something that doesn't revolve around him."  
  
"H-hey." Stan growls, "Hey, it's not like that. You don't know what our dad's like--he just doesn't wanna be home alone with him."  
  
"A convenient excuse," Mr. Forrest remains unmoved. "He can't handle the idea of a teacher liking _you_ more than him, even though every single other teacher that you two have ever had since first grade has preferred him. The model student, the golden boy, the older brother-- your parents favor him and so do your teachers, and he can't cope with the concept that for one minute, you might actually be _likeable_ to someone other than him. Because if that's the case then maybe some day you might be able to stand on your own and he can't _use_ you anymore. He's _co-dependent_ , Stanley, and if you let him take your education from you he's going to flush your life down the toilet so you'll always be there two steps behind him, propping up his shadow with a stick so you have room to _walk_."  
  
"That's not-- Ford would never do somethin' like that." Stanley protests, but even he doesn't sound all that sure of that fact. "He's just scared, same as me. We only ever had each other, he's just scared of losin' me is all... that's all."  
  
"Don't throw away your life for him, it isn't worth it-- _he_ isn't worth it," Mr. Forrest's voice is shaking a bit as he stands in front of Stan. "If the roles were reversed, he wouldn't return the favor."  
  
"You don't know that! You don't know anything!" Stanley roars, getting to his feet. He may not be taller than his teacher, but he sure does try to seem like it, practically up on his tip toes to face off with him. "Just shup up!" The only thing stopping him from reaching up and grabbing Mr. Forrest by the front of the shirt is knowing how much trouble he'd get into with his father if he hit him.  
  
"I know the kind of man that boys like him become, Stanley," Mr. Forrest says, holding Stan's eye contact. "There isn't enough room for two people in his spotlight. Once he gets his break you'll be a forgotten footnote and it'll be too late for you."  
  
"Get outta my way." Stan growls in a warning before shoving past him, forgetting his bookbag on the floor and rushing out of the room, leaving Mr. Forrest by himself with his thoughts in the quiet classroom.  
  
As soon as he opens the door to rush into the hall, he catches sight of Ford standing just beyond it, his face red and his eyes full of tears. He overheard every word from the teacher, and just stares at Stan now in disbelief, clutching his backpack to his chest and shaking his head.  
  
"Stanford...?" He pleads, reaching out to try and touch his shoulder. "Hey--hey it's okay. Don't--he doesn't know what he's talkin' about."  
  
As soon as Stan's hand touches his shoulder, Ford lurches back like he's been burned, and just shakes his head."Just go," he hisses, hugging his backpack to his chest. "I'll get your bag, just get out of here."  
  
Stanley looks at him, his eyes darting all over his face to try and understand what his brother's about to do, but he doesn't question it, he just bolts right away, chancing only one glance over his shoulder at his brother, and then he's gone, leaving Mr. Forrest and Ford to face one another.  
  
Ford storms into the classroom and rounds accusingly on Mr. Forrest with heat in his eyes, slamming his backpack down on the desk nearest to him. "I don't know who you think you are-- where do you get off talking to my brother like that? About _me_ like that? You don't _know_ me!"  
  
Mr. Forrest looks down at the boy and feels the contempt burn in his chest, and though he knows it's misplaced, this poor, clueless boy is the only direction he can turn it towards. "Where do _I_ get off?" he puffs up right back. "What about you? Putting it in your brother's head that he's neglecting you because he spends four hours every week focusing on his own education?"  
  
"Apparently I was right to say so, because you're here trying to pit my brother against me!"  Ford shouts back, his voice wavering, his eyes stinging. He's never yelled at a teacher before, never, not once-- he's never even backsassed a teacher before.  
  
"I'm doing nothing of the sort!" Mr. Forrest raises his voice to match. "You're the one convincing him to throw away his entire future because you can't _get over yourself_ four hours every week!"  
  
Ford lurches back like he's been slapped, his hands shaking. "I'm tutoring him," his voice trembles, but he squares his shoulders. "He doesn't need you. He doesn't need anyone but me-- we're all we've ever had, and we're all we'll ever need."  
  
Turning on his heel, Ford snatches his and Stan's backpack up off the desk and sprints from the room, leaving his older counterpart there spinning in the dust. He falls back against his desk and covers his face with his hands, hopelessness sinking into his chest. He can't stay in this dimension long, he knows he can't. Bill usually catches up with him within a couple of years, and he'll have to flee again in order to keep hidden, and more importantly in order to keep this dimension safe. He can't leave this dimension knowing he gave up on securing some version of Stanley's future just because a teenager yelled at him, he'll never forgive himself. Even if it means destroying the relationship between Stan and his version of Ford in this world, well... he's probably better off without Ford, anyway.  
  
So he comes to the difficult decision of approaching the Pines residence after school hours to speak directly to Stan's parents. If anyone can force Stan to do something, it's Filbrick. He feels a sick knot of dread sink into his stomach at the thought of utilizing their father against Stan like a weapon, but Ford can swallow any amount of guilt if it means giving Stanley every potential for his future, even if it means that Stan will hate him in this world. He can live with that.  
  
He still feels the back of his neck tighten with dread at the sight of his father, sitting behind the desk in the pawn shop, setting down his newspaper as soon as he hears someone enter the store. Filbrick sits up a little straighter at the sight of him, and he realizes it's because of how crisply he's dressed-- his father probably sees a moneymaking opportunity in him. The thought alone makes his stomach churn, but he reminds himself that he's an adult man now, and he doesn't have to fear this version of his father. He holds his chin high and approaches the desk.  
  
"Filbrick Pines?" he clears his throat. "I'm Mr. Forrest, I'm your sons' science teacher. I'm here looking for Stanley, I need to have a talk with you, him and your wife."  
  
Filbricks grunts, apparently disappointed that this well-dressed man isn't here to spend money, and he shakes his head. "Good luck with that. Haven't seen the kid since before he left for school. You can talk to my wife, door's in the back."  
  
Ice slicks down Ford's back at that, but he gives Filbrick a polite nod as he heads for the familiar old door and walks up the creaky stairs to the second floor apartment. As soon as he opens the front door, a habit that immediately brings color to his cheeks when he sees his mother just past the archway in the living room look up in surprise, followed by shock, but he quickly clears his throat and holds up a hand to show her he means no harm.  
  
"Apologies. I'm Mr. Forrest, your sons' science teacher," he launches into the same rehearsed lines. "I'm here looking for--"  
  
But he doesn't get any farther than that before his teenage counterpart comes running into the room at the sound of his voice. His shoulders hitch up indignantly and he points at Mr. Forrest. "You! This is _your_ fault! What are you _doing_ here!"  
  
"Stanford!" their mother stands up from the couch, shocked.  
  
"Stanley's missing and it's _your fault!"_ Ford continues, advancing on the teacher like he wants to shove him backwards down the stairs.  
  
"Where could he have gone?" He looks past his counterpart's head towards their mother, who shrugs helplessly.  
  
"I called the school, they said he didn't go to any of his classes after lunch," Caryn says. "I called around for the rest of the moms in the neighborhood to keep their eyes peeled, but nobody's called me back yet. This isn't the first time he's done something like this before, Stanley's a free spirit... I'm sure he'll be back."  
  
Mr. Forrest's stuck standing in the doorway between a concerned mother and a furious version of himself, and he grips the door jamb as his mind pores over the possibilities. He doesn't think Stanley would have done something to hurt himself, he cares too much about his version of Ford  to risk leaving him behind. He must have gone somewhere he felt safe, somewhere he knew he could be alone to think-- and it hits him like a slap to the face. "The Stan o' War," he says breathlessly.  
  
"The what?" Caryn asks, but Ford is shaking his head.  
  
"How do you know about that?" he almost whispers it, but Mr. Forrest is already turning around to head back down the stairs. Ford's heart lurches into his throat at the idea of the teacher making it to Stan before he can and he rushes for the door shouting, "I'll be back before dark, ma!" and it slams behind him on his way down the stairs, taking them in twos.  
  
After he'd left school, Stan had just driven around town for awhile, mostly around backroads where truant officers wouldn't be patrolling, just trying to clear his head. The wind through his hair doesn't do anything to alleviate the endless stream of thoughts that swirl through his mind like a tornado, tearing up everything in its path.   
  
He hates that he's even considering that Mr. Forrest might be right, but it's a hard thought to put out of his mind when his brother's been acting the way he has. It may just be jealousy, driving Ford's actions, and if it were that simple, Stanley would surely be an idiot for not seeing it sooner.   
  
But he can't just keep hurting Clifford in order to make his brother feel better, either. It isn't fair to him. They've become friends over the course of time he's been here, whether he be a teacher or nt, they're on friendly terms, and surely the way things had felt at the riverside had meant more. It must have.   
  
When driving around in the Stanmobile proves to be less than helpful, he parks her in a back alley and walks around town for awhile, still trying to clear his head, and at some point, along the winding, aimless circuit, he'd ended up on the beach, like his feet had just brought him home of their own accord.   
  
Being on the Stan O' War makes him feel like everything's okay, even if it's not. Here, he can think about the promise of what might be, running his hands over worn wood, and standing at the bow, thinking about his future with his brother. No matter Ford's feelings now, Stanley can still see them in the future, sailing off into the sunset together and leaving behind all the heartache in Glass Shard Beach-- even if it's just a fairytale, it's one he tells himself when he's hurt or upset, and it never fails to make him feel better.  
  
He doesn't really know how long he sat there on the boat with his back against the rickety old wall, just watching his shadow get longer and longer. But it's long enough that when he hears his brother's voice call out his name, he's so lost in daydreams that for a few moments he doesn't realize that he heard it with his ears, rather than his mind.   
  
Turning around at the waist, he sees both his brother _and_ his teacher coming down the beach side by side, headed right for the boat.   
  
"Whoa, what's goin' on?" Stan asks, getting to his feet. He stops at the top of the gangplank and puts his hand on the railing, looking from Ford to Mr. Forrest, trying to make sense of their panicked faces. "You's guys look like ya seen a ghost or somethin'." He searches their faces. "Did somethin' happen?"  
  
"You skipped out of school," Mr. Forrest explains, while Ford climbs up onto the boat like he has a million times before.   
  
"Mr. Forrest isn't even supposed to be here," Ford says accusingly as he hops right up onto the deck of the ship, yanking himself up by the rope net hanging off the side. "I told him to get lost, but he wouldn't. He's an idiot, Stanley, just ignore him."  
  
"Stan," Mr. Forrest starts, and then sighs as he watches his teenage counterpart shuffle closer to Stan and put an arm around his shoulders, trying to coax him into an embrace he's too self-conscious to return. Despite his resolve to do whatever it takes to give Stan his shot in this world, actually seeing the two of them side-by-side now has his determination wavering. He knows it's his responsibility to be the adult in this situation, because he quite literally is. Not only is he more than double their age, but he's put himself in the position of an authority figure they're supposed to be able to trust. So he swallows his pride, sighs, and switches gears. "Listen... I'm sorry. It was unfair of me to yell at either of you. I just... I see so much of myself in you. In _both_ of you. I was wrong."  
  
Stanley wraps his arm around Ford's waist and holds him to his chest in such a way that it could be mistaken for romantic, but Stan isn't thinking of that right now. His heart is pounding out of his chest with fear, as he tries to understand what's happening, and why it's happening-- and what's about to happen.   
  
"You're right." He swallows the lump in his throat. "You was wrong."  
  
"I don't care if you see yourself in us," Ford says defiantly, resting his head against his brother's shoulder. "You aren't us."  
  
"I was," Mr. Forrest's voice is soft and pained as he looks down at the deck instead of at the pair of them, his chest aching too badly to keep watching their display of affection. "A long time ago, I was. I had a brother.I haven't seen him in almost twenty years, and the last time I was with him, I hadn't seen him for another ten years before that. I ruined things with my brother because I was more concerned about my future than my relationship with him. I'm never going to see him again because of a terrible choice I made when I was your age, and I'm so afraid you're going to make the same mistakes I did."  
  
While Ford, beside him, is clapping back with intensity, Stanley's heart opens up and blossoms with Mr. Forrest's words. "He's right, we can't lose each other over somethin' like this."  He looks to Ford, still holding him tight against his body, "We gotta find a way to make peace, all of us."  
  
Ford lifts his head off Stan's shoulder, and looks across at his teacher uncertainly, his brow furrowed. He looks to his brother, and then back to the older man. "Was your brother like Stanley?"   
  
"He was exactly like Stanley," Mr. Forrest says, dropping his eyes as shame fills him. "He was reckless, and wild, and brave, and he sacrificed everything for me. But then right at the end, he made a terrible mistake that cost me my future and ruined my life, and... I never forgave him. And now I'm never going to see him again. I'm going to die without him one day, and I'll never know what became of him. I know that he became a criminal, that he turned to whatever means he could to survive, and I know he jumped from prison to prison to prison in a matter of just ten years, but after we parted ways the last time..." he sighs, and shakes his head.   
  
Ford goes quiet and contemplative, looking from his brother back across to their teacher. It's so strange, to think of a teacher as being... such an individual. There's always that air of separation between teacher and student, it's so easy to forget that they have lives and histories past the time they spend in school teaching.  
  
"Where is your brother now?" he asks softly.  
  
Mr. Forrest shakes his head. "I don't know," he admits, equally quietly, almost drowned out by the noise of the waves and shrieking gulls behind them. "For all I know, he's already gotten himself killed. Our lives have diverged too drastically to ever reunite, but it doesn't have to be like that for you two. You can be there for each other forever, you just... have to give one another the room to grow."  
  
Stan leans back and looks at Ford, holding him out at arm's length, tears in his eyes from listening to their teacher's words. He squeezes his brother's shoulders and offers him a lopsided smile, his breath hitching, "I'll always be here for ya, you knucklehead--but I got things to learn, and so do you."   
  
He takes his brother by the hand, running his thumb over Ford's knuckles, "I'd never leave ya behind... to be honest, I started takin' those lessons with Mr. Forrest so I could keep up with ya, 'cuz at this rate, you're gonna go off to school and I'll just be here. I don't wanna get left behind, Stanford."  
  
Ford looks from Stan to their teacher again, his expression conflicted. "That's... why you said all those things in the classroom?" he asks. "You were talking about yourself?"  
  
Hanging his head, Mr. Forrest sighs. "I was," he admits. "I was projecting onto you, unfairly. I see a second chance to even the kharmic balance with your brother. It's selfish, perhaps, but I want so, so badly to see him succeed."  
  
Ford looks back at Stan, and then down at his own hands, held in Stan's, trapped in the desperate, frightened embrace of his brother. "I've been... unfair, too," he admits, his face burning. "I'm the only person Stan's ever had for so long, it's... uncomfortable, him having another person. I don't like it, I'm afraid he's going to leave me behind if he has someone else to rely on. Especially someone older and cooler who has all his... stuff in order."  
  
In the back of Stan's mind, he remmebers Mr. Forrest's strange conversation about the multiverse, and wonders how that all fits into this, if it does at all, but he doesn't have too long to linger on it before Ford is speaking, and his words hit Stanley in the chest like the buckshot from a twelve gauge.   
  
"I'd never leave ya behind, Poindexter-- not if I could help it." He glances over at their teacher. "Not gonna lie, Mr. Forrest's pretty cool, but he don't know all the things about me that you do-- you can read me like a book, I'm never gonna have a bond like that with anybody else, long as I live. You don't got nothin' to worry about."  
  
Ford goes quiet, just watching his brother's face for a moment, a knot of fear still going tight in his chest... but he knows he's not being fair. He knows this isn't the right thing to do. Sighing, he nods and hangs his head.  
  
"Alright," he says. "You should... continue your lessons. Mr. Forrest can teach you better than I could. With his help, you can get into whatever college you want-- and with my grades, maybe we can go to the same school. Wouldn't that be cool? I bet we could be roommates."  
  
"Heh. Yeah, roommates." Stan squeezes his shoulder and turns back to Mr. Forrest. "I better go tell Ma I'm okay, she's probably worried sick...you okay, Doc?"  
  
He catches Mr. Forrest with a funny look on his face, somewhere between fondness and sadness. Watching the two of them has put him in a sad old place that he hasn't let himself linger in for too long, these last couple of decades. It makes his chest burn with a bittersweet ache. It makes him miss his Stanley.  
  
"I'll be fine," he says, his voice cool, but perhaps too cool. It reminds Stan of when his brother goes icy to pretend nothing's wrong. He looks at Stanford then, and takes a deep breath. "Can we call a truce? For Stanley's sake."  
  
Ford looks between his brother and his teacher, and then blows out a breath, and holds out his hand. "For Stanley's sake," he agrees, and their hands clap together in a firm shake.  
  
Mr. Forrest takes them both home, but only after stopping to buy them both ice cream cones from a corner shoppe, guilt eating away at his chest as he watches the boys gleefully flick sprinkles at one another in the back seat of his car. And when Filbrick asks what it was that he'd initially come to talk to them about, Ford just tells him that he wanted to congratulate him personally on being the father of the student with the most drastically improved grades in Glass Shard Beach High to date.


	5. Chapter 5

Things are pretty smooth after the incident on the boat, but it's a learning curve for Ford, to be sure. He has to get used to the idea of Stanley spending time with someone else, but really it's good for both of them to get out and be among other people, it really gives them some perspective on things.   
  
When their next lesson comes up, Stan insists on taking them to the beach himself, which takes some convincing on his part, as Mr. Forrest seems none too keen on getting into the caddy, expressing that it's unprofessional. But considering they've already hugged at the river, there's not a lot of ceremony to stand on, when it comes to being professional. So they get their things packed up, and Stan slides into the car, waits for Mr. Forrest to get comfortable and they're off-- and you can bet your bottom dollar he's going to take the scenic route.   
  
Stan drums his fingers on the steering wheel-- he looks natural like this, sitting back against the bench seat of the caddy, one arm hanging out the window, his hand clutching the steering wheel low, definitely not ten and two. The radio plays softly in the background, the wind whipping through their hair, and he shoots a sidelong grin at his teacher.   
  
"Nice car, huh? Fixed her up myself." Stan says, spreading sitting back a little further, legs splayed as far as the gas pedal will let him.  
  
"It is nice," Mr. Forrest says, trying to sound casual as he looks out the opposite window or the front window or the side mirror or literally anywhere but at Stan. "Where did you learn to fix up cars like this?"  
  
"Took a lotta automotives classes in junior high, that and Pops knows a thing or two. I just kinda picked it up as I went, kinda a hobby of mine. If school didn't work out, I thought about doin' it regular as, ya know, a job." Stan says, patting the car.  
  
"I'm sure you could make a living restoring cars like this," Mr. Forrest says, sitting ramrod in the seat still, but at least he's now looking around the cabin appraisingly. He catches a glimpse of Stan for just a moment too long, and his eyes zip straight back out to the window.  
  
Stan gives a contented sigh, he really does look the picture of luxury sitting there in the seat of his caddy--he catches Clifford's eyes for the split second that he looks over, and smiles to himself when the teacher glances away.   
  
"Ya look pretty good in the passenger seat," Stan says, testing the waters. "Like ya belong there, but ya could try to look comfortable, ya know?"  
  
"I am comfortable," Mr. Forrest says, uncomfortably.  
  
Stan laughs, "Yeah? Is that why you're sittin' like that?"  
  
He squirms a bit. "Sitting like what? This is just how I sit."  
  
"C'mon, lean into it, let your hair down." Stan shimmies his shoulders back against the seat and leans into the leather with a sigh, still holding the steering wheel from the bottom, arm hooked out of the window. "Like this, just relax. Ya look like you're goin' to a funeral."  
  
A guilty part of him looks at Stan for just a little bit too long. It was so long ago that he knew his own Stan like this, but he loved him just as deeply then as he still does now. He must have underestimated what being around him again would feel like, how nostalgic and precious it would feel to be with him.   
  
He leans back in the seat, just a little bit.  
  
"That's a start, I guess." Stan laughs. "C'mon, don't you like my car? You're gonna make me cry."   
  
He gives a little stage sniffle, but recovers with more laughter. Probably, this is as relaxed as he'll get the poor man, he seems a little uncomfortable in his own skin, let alone sitting in a pretty, refurbished cadillac.  
  
"Your car is... nice," Mr. Forrest says, shifting again, his hands in his lap. "Are we almost there?"  
  
Stan just laughs again. They're almost there, he informs him, a little disappointed that Mr. Forrest seems so uncomfortable, but amused all the same.   
  
The car ride ends at a long strip of beach that's fairly deserted at this time of day, on a Thursday no less. They gather their things from the roomy trunk of the caddy, and head down the strand to find a place to sit, where Stan immediately takes his shirt off again, though whether or not he's still testing Mr. Forrest's resolve remains a mystery.   
  
They get into their work, and Stanley is dilligent, not whining once about getting into the water, despite his earlier playful attitude. He seems to have brought his work brain today, and keeps his head down, listening to Mr. Forrest as time passes, and the two of them listen to the waves crashing on the beach. Eventually, there's a lull in their work, and the playful air from before is gone, replaced by something quieter, so Stan takes the moment to say something he's been meaning to for a bit now.   
  
"Are you okay?" He looks up at Clifford. "Ya know--after that whole thing...talkin' about your brother and all that shit. Must'a stirred up a lot of feelin's for ya."  
  
Mr. Forrest seems surprised by the sudden question, and his brows furrow as he glances away from the boy. The sting he'd been trying to smother to death for the last several days settles again like a knife in his chest.   
  
"I'm just fine," he says, the wind ruffling through his hair as he watches the gulls soar over the water. "But thank you for asking."  
  
"Mmrgh." Stan grumbles. "Ya know, ya don't gotta pretend like everything's okay alla time. I could tell it was hard for ya to talk about." He trails off, scratching a few more numbers down in his notebook, to finish off the equation they'd been working on. "And anyways--that's not an easy thing, ya know? I mean....if I lost my brother like that, I dunno what I'd do. That must've hurt--a lot."  
  
Mr. Forrest is silent for a while, just watching the water. The wind whispers around them and he seems lost in thought, his expression soft and sad.   
  
"It's the worst thing that ever happened to me," he says finally, his voice quiet. "I miss him so badly sometimes that I think the grief alone could kill me."  
  
Stan closes the books in front of him, and comes around to Clifford's side. He sits down next to him, and wraps an arm over his shoulders, tugging him close.  
  
 "I wish I knew what to say to make ya feel better, but there's not a lot I can do, short'a bringin' him back." Stan's voice is a soft rumble in his teacher's ear. "But I guess--what I can promise is--so long as you're here, I'll be your little brother." He smiles up at Clifford, and tugs him a little closer, affectionate with him, to hell with being proper. "I know it's not the same, but....I dunno. Seein' ya in pain like this--God, I can only imagine how much it hurts."  
  
Mr. Forrest looks down at him with an expression halfway between relief and agony. "Don't make promises like that, Stanley," he says softly, and then looks back out at the water. "I won't be here for very long."  
  
"Just while you're here," Stan mutters. HIs body's warm against Clifford's, a comforting, familiar weight that he remembers from his own childhood--he's so close that it breathes life into those old memories of being close with his brother like this, his own Stanley, and for a moment it's like he's reclaimed those lost moments. "It don't gotta be anything if ya don't want it to be, but while you're here, I'll be your brother."   
  
He doesn't really know what he's promising, how could he? He's no way of knowing, but it seems somehow, Stan always has a habit of finding him, even when he's far flung out of his own dimension, his brother has a way of being his.  
  
Unable to keep his composure with Stanley offering everything he's ever wanted for the past eighteen years, he covers his face wtih both hands. He takes a few measured breaths, shivering despite the warmth of the late afternoon, and he leans just ever so slightly into Stan, his professionalism forgotten.   
  
"Thank you," he says softly, muffled in his palms.  
  
"It's okay." Stan mumurs, his instinct to comfort overwhelming every other sense, and he just holds him tight. "It's okay."   
  
Mr. Forrest cries for a bit, not too long, he's too composed for that, and when Stan's sure he's recovered, he slips away again, and sits cross-legged near him. "So, what was you and your brother's relationship like. huh? You said you's guys were a lot like me and Ford?"  
  
"We were so much like the two of you that sometimes it aches in my heart to see you both together. He was my protector," Mr. Forrest says, looking down at his hands, his eyes still red and stinging. "He kept me safe from our father, and from the bullies at school. They loved to pick on me for my hands. Part of why I've felt so protective of you," he glances up across at Stan with a soft sigh.   
  
Stan looks up at him, then down at his hands, turning them over in the afternoon sun--they look very alike to Mr. Forrest's, almost identical, save for Stan's big fingers, his hands resemble paws moreso than his teacher's do.   
  
"Sounds a lot like us--I've always protected Ford. When did your brother disappear?"  
  
"Technically I'm the one who disappeared," Clifford sighs. "Eighteen years ago. Twenty eight, if you count the ten years before then. So long ago that I sometimes struggle to even remember what he looks like. I think constantly of what he's made of himself, what he might have become in my absence. What could have been if I hadn't been so selfish and nearsighted when we were young."  
  
"Ya never know, he might feel the same way--he probably made a lotta mistakes too," Stan says, sitting back on the heels of his hands. "If your brother's like me, then he made a lotta mistakes--it can't all have been your fault, ya know? Don't be so hard on yourself."  
  
"It was my fault," Clifford says, rubbing one thumb into the palm of his other hand. "I was planning to leave him behind and when he lashed out, I blamed him. I could do no wrong, I was taught _by him_ that I was a helpless victim of circumstance. I was entitled to protection, to the belief that anything bad that ever happened to me was due to the terrible hand we'd been dealt by fate, not because of any wrongdoing on my part. I was narrow-minded and naïve, and we both paid the price for my selfishness. I missed the opportunity to follow my dreams, and he went to prison."  
  
"You really wanted to leave him behind?" Stan asks, rubbing his arm, worrying over the state of things between he and Ford--would his brother do the same thing to him, if given the chance? "Why'd you do that?"  
  
"It wasn't that I wanted to leave him," he looks out at the water again. "But I was certain that if I could get my big break, then I could come back for him and we could leave together. He didn't like the idea of being a charity case, and we fought. All of our history, shattered in a single evening. Our father came down on him hard and I just stood there and watched."  
  
Stan scrubs his arm. "Your heart was in the right place, though right? That's gotta count for somethin'. It's gotta..."  
  
"At this point, where my heart was doesn't matter," Clifford shakes his head. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and this road in particular lead us down paths so far apart there's no hope of repairing what we used to have. I don't even know who my brother is anymore, what he became, if he's even alive. I knew a boy your age, a very long time ago. I doubt I could even recognize him if I saw him again now."  
  
"Sounds like you gave up." Stanley says, glancing out over the water. "Sounds like you messed up, and when things went the way ya didn't want 'em to, ya gave up--I dunno what happened, why you two can't meet in the middle, but if I was your brother, and you went missin', I'd be lookin' for ya--I would'a never gave up on ya like that. I don't see how you can."  
  
"There are things you don't know," Clifford shakes his head, looking down at his hands again. "Details that aren't mine to share, forces in play that are bigger than you, bigger than me. There are reasons I can never go home, reasons I wouldn't explain to you even if you could begin to understand them. If it were simply a matter of selfish pride, I gave that up a long, long time ago. I would be by his side again if I knew how to be, without hesitation."  
  
Stan just hums in reply, the silence between them filled by the crashing of ocean waves against the shore. He doesn't say anything then, what can he say? There's nothing that can lessen this hurt, nothing he can say or do, but he can sit beside him and offer his company. So he does.  
  
Mr. Forrest lets that quiet linger for a long time, just enjoying the warmth of the sun and the presence of the body beside him. After so, so long of being alone, of being without Stan, it feels better than he can describe to be beside him again. It lightens him both in body and spirit, it makes him feel young again. He almost forgets that he's an old man as he sits in the sand, and the side of his pinkie touches the side of his brother's.   
  
No, not _his_ brother's. He can't let himself think like that.   
  
"Thank you, Stanley," he murmurs after a very long while of sitting in silence. "For everything."  
  
"Yeah, no problem," Stan says, turning to look at him. The swell in his chest makes him bold then, and he leans in, feeling the warmth lingering between them, and he presses his hand to the back of Clifford's neck, moving in with intent-- he doesn't even think about it, it just feels so natural to kiss him.  
  
Mr. Forrest doesn't have much time to react. He feels a hot leap in his stomach, but instinct tells him this isn't acceptable, no matter how badly he may want it. He presses a hand to Stan's chest to stop him, just a few inches shy of making contact, and when he speaks, his eyes are glued to the boy's lips instead of his eyes, his voice soft and warm.   
  
"We should get going," he says, unable or unwilling to look up. "It'll start getting cold soon."  
  
Stan's brows furrow, and he looks up at Mr. Forrest--he can tell the teacher doesn't want to stop by the shaking in his hand, and the way his eyes dart to Stan's mouth. Doubly, it's difficult for Stan to pull away, physically painful for him to resist, but he does, feeling dejected.   
  
"Yeah okay." He mumurs, and begins collecting his things, silent as the dead.  
  
Stan's brows furrow, and he looks up at Mr. Forrest--he can tell the teacher doesn't want to stop by the shaking in his hand, and the way his eyes dart to Stan's mouth. Doubly, it's difficult for Stan to pull away, physically painful for him to resist, but he does, feeling dejected.   
  
"Yeah, okay," He mumurs, and begins collecting his things, silent as the dead.  
  
When he drops Mr. Forrest off at the school parking lot so he can take his own car back home, the teacher stoops and puts his hands on the door frame of Stan's open window, ducking his head down to look at him.   
  
"Stanley," he starts, his voice soft. He searches the boy's face as he struggles to stay whatever it is he's going to say next. The urge for Stan to just lean up and connect their mouths is nearly insurmountable, and he might have done it if the teacher didn't give a strained, "Tell your brother hello from me," before standing up and walking away from the car.   
  
Whatever Stan just felt there, it has to be real. It has to be. 


	6. Chapter 6

December wasn't usually anyone's idea of the best time for going to a ropes course-- which is exactly why Ford gunned for it so hard when the school committee was putting together their ideas for the yearly midterms field trip. Usually the trip took the kids out of the state but somewhere close by, with a small budget to run the whole event on and usually between 80-100 kids to cover; they've always had to be very tight-fisted with the trips they take the kids on. But that just won't do for Stanford Pines-- beg pardon, _Clifford Forrest_. He rolls his eyes at his own fake name, sometimes.  
  
He requests just two days to crunch the numbers and come up with something spectacular for the kids. After all, they're rewarding the 99th percentile for their excellence and hard work in the first half of the school year, they deserve something better than previous weekends that have included a trip to the glass museum, a tour of a maximum-security prison, and _pickle-world_ which is just a dill pickle factory with so much pickle-themed merchandise that it's impossible to get the smell out of one's clothes for days and days after. Ford should know-- he went on every single trip his school ever put on for just such occasions.  
  
But he can say that without a doubt, this will be the first and last chance Stan will ever have to go on one, and he's not going to let the school hamfist it to death with tickets to go see _Shakespeare on Ice_ or whatever else contrived crap they would have come up with to pinch pennies and stay under budget. He's given permission to do exactly that, and with the numbers in mind, he sets to researching the area.  
  
"A ropes course!" Ford bursts into the bedroom excitedly, running and jumping onto Stan's lower bunk, practically sprawling on top of him and yanking the comic book out of his hand, replacing it instead with the pamphlet for the park as he straddles his brother's hips in the too-small space  of his lower bunk. "He's taking us to a _ropes course_ , Stanley!"  
  
"Oh, neato." Stan says, clearly distracted and not caring much for the talk about a trip he won't be going on, but he humors his brother anyways by taking the pamphlet out of his hands and giving it a rather cursory once over, before slipping it back into Ford's hands. "Kinda cold to be doin' that right now, but hey you could stand to build a little muscle."  
  
"He's taking us to Delaware, it's still up in the 40's down there, and there's hardly any snow," Ford is vibrating like a chihuahua with excitement in his brother's lap. "There are zip lines and high ropes and puzzle exercises-- this is going to be the most exciting midterm trip to date! Everyone's talking about how Mr. Forrest singlehandedly got the school to agree to this-- I don't know how he did it, he's some kind of miracle worker. A ropes course! We've never been to a ropes course!"  
  
Ford's opinion of their teacher has flip-flopped a few times over the year, first he'd been desperate to get his approval, and then he had his fit of jealousy back in late October that lead him to be very wary of the man, but ever since the heart-to-heart he'd had with the twins on their boat, his feelings towards the teacher had flipped again. Of course, that's thanks in no small part to how much Stan's confidence in his own intellect has grown over the past few months.  
  
"That's real nice, Stanford. I hope ya have fun." Stan replies, a bit clipped. He'd like nothing more than to stop talking about this, and just get back to his comic book, to pretend like it's not happening. He's never had good enough grades to go on the midterm field trip, so he doesn't know why Ford is grinding it in. He's gotten to go every year since fifth grade.  
  
"I _will,_ I know I will," Ford says, leaning on his hands on Stan's shoulders. "You're going to wear your leather jacket, right? The one that makes your shoulders big? Who knows what kinda girls you might meet in Delaware, we'll be there all weekend. I bet you could get someone's house number, girls are really into mysterious long distance, aren't they?"  
  
"Wear my--what? I'm not goin'." Stan looks up at him with confusin clear on his face. "My grades aren't good enough."  
  
Ford's smile droops in confusion to match Stan's. "What? Yes you..." he pauses, and then grins. "Don't tell me Mr. Forrest didn't _tell you?"_  
  
Stan laughs nervously, "Uuh, tell me what, Poindexter?"  
  
"You got an A!" Ford shouts, breathless and flushed with his eyes glittering. "You got an A+ Stanley. You have a 98 in the class."  
  
"What?!" Stan growls, grabbing Ford by the shoulders and the two of them go tumbling backward on the bed. Landing on top of his brother, his weight bearing down on Ford, Stan smiles down at him, his face soft and happy, full of hope.  
  
"Ah jeeze, I can't believe it...an A+." Realizing the position they're in, Stanley's cheeks go red and he looks down at his brother, who's looking up at him like he's got every star in the sky twinkling in his eyes. "Wow...lookit you." Stan mutters softly.  
  
"Look at _you!"_ Ford insists, reaching up to grab Stan by the biceps. "Who's the nerd now, Mr. 98%? You better watch out or pretty soon you'll be compulsively wearing pocket protectors."  
  
Stan ducks his head and chuckles quietly, "Yeah...who knows what'll happen, huh?"  
  
"We're going to stay in a motel overnight, so pack a change of clothes," Ford says, his hands roaming over his brother's biceps and up to his shoulders and down his chest without thinking, stimming thoughtlessly against the texture of his shirt. "Dad's gonna _flip_ when he hears you got an A, Stanley-- he's gonna be so proud of you."  
  
Feeling like he's got cotton between his ears, Stan hardly registers anything Ford's saying over the glide of his hands over his shoulders and arms. A bit jelly-legged and red faced now, he looks down at his brother in a bit of a stupor and laughs, "Yeah. Wow..."  
  
" _I'm_ proud of you," Ford says softly, his thighs squeezing around Stan's hips. "You've been working so hard these last few months, Stan... I couldn't be more proud."  
  
The feeling of Ford's thighs surrounding him makes Stan's brain go completely dead. His weight falls against his brother, and he covers his body with his own, nestling his nose right against his neck, hugging him in a sort of way, his body putting off waves of heat.  
  
"Mmrgh..." Stan grunts, lifting his head to look up at his brother, eyes dropping to his lips and he swallows hard.  
  
Ford's heart slams into his throat when Stan leans in just a touch closer to him. He swallows audibly, and licks his lips, and he leans up, unthinking. He feels, all he can feel is Stan's stubble under his palms and his own heartbeat under his tongue, and he feels Stan's breath wash over his chin--  
  
A heavy knock at the bedroom door brings them out of their stupor. "Boys!" their mother's voice calls, shrill through the door. "Your father's callin' me for your help in the shop!"  
  
Stan reels back when he hears their mother's voice, and hits his head on the bottom of the top bunk. He hisses in pain and rubs the spot before scrambling out of bed, and fights to hide the prominent bulge tenting out the seam of his pants. He looks back at Ford, his eyes tense for a moment or two-- he knows his brother can see him like that-- and doubly, knows he'd felt him, but he can't even say anything to defend himself, and so makes sure he's decent before shouting after his mother that he's on his way, and leaves Ford alone with his thoughts, for now.  
  
Ford clings the edge of the bed with both hands when he sits up, his heart hammering as he hears his mother distantly tell his father that the boys are on their ways down, and with one trembling hand he reaches up to touch his lips. Was he about to... kiss Stanley? Thinking it with words in his head sounds crazy, but when he'd leaned in...  
  
No, surely not. Surely not.  
  
When Ford breaks the news to his parents that Stan was also invited along to the yearly field trip that Ford always attends this time of year, Filbrick actually lowers his newspaper from his spot in his recliner, his brows raising. It's all the acknowledgement Stanley gets, for now, but even that is enough to have his heart soaring-- and when their father gives a soft "hmph" of surprise and his nod of consent to let Stan go too, he nearly passes out on the spot.  
  
The bus picks them up the next morning at the usual time, but instead of taking them to school it just takes them straight down the road towards Delaware. It'll be a few hours on the bus, but Stan and Ford managed to snag a back-row seat, and spend the whole ride just talking about which schools they'd both have a chance to get into with grades like theirs, and what they might even do for the rest of their lives-- the Stan O' War pipe dream very nearly forgotten.  
  
The ropes course is every bit as spectacular as the photographs on the pamphlet had led them to believe. The conifers are towering and green despite their depth into winter, and the weather is blessedly sunny and mild, with only a few patches of dusty snow indicating that it's winter at all. There are both high and low ropes courses and ziplines of varying heights and distances, group activities and daredevil stunts to behold in every direction. It's overwhelming, basking in the delight of it all as a reward for a job finally, deservingly well done.  
  
Mr. Forrest is one of the only two teachers who had come along to chaperone-- but then again there had only been 76 kids this semester. All the more special, he thinks, that Stanley had gotten to be one of them, in one of the record lowest 99th percentiles of the past decade. He finds himself blatantly watching the twins as they run around with one another, sitting on a bench at the side of the action with a book he's only pretending to pay attention to.  
  
Stan shows off on the climbing courses, for both his brother, and Mr. Forrest--using the sheer strength of his upper body, he pulls himself over the rocky wall and drops down the other side, only to swing onto the next thing, looking like a gorilla in its natural habitat, and hoping to impress his two favorite people in the whole world.  
  
And where he can help Ford, he does. Though it'd be easy for him to run ahead, he makes sure to stop to give his brother an arm up if he needs help, which only endears Mr. Forrest to the whole affair, and reminds him of why he's doing this in the first place--those boys need each other, and no one, apart from they, know the truth of that as much as he does.  
  
It's a bittersweet thing, watching Stanley and his brother on the obstacle course, because he knows if he hadn't turned up and helped, the same fate that befell he and his Stan might have plagued these two, and if he can change just one reality, and make it so they're together at least somewhere in the far reaches of the multiverse, he's glad to have messed with the fabric of time. It isn't like their separation is crucial for the timeline of the universe, anyway. At least, he refuses to think that it is.  
  
The day is as exhausting as it is rewarding, and by the time they're crashing in their motel rooms, four kids to every room, Ford is out like a light as soon as he hits the covers, without even climbing under the blankets or removing his shoes. Stan isn't quite sleepy enough to attempt bed at nine pm, so he heads out of the motel room. They'd been told to stay in the area, but that didn't mean he couldn't go around the block or something, see what there is to see in Delaware.  
  
Evidently, what there is to see is Mr. Forrest, standing out in the moonlight at the edge of the motel property with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the clouds roll across the moon and stars, blotting out the twinkling lights in little black ribbons.  
  
"Got a light?" Stan asks from behind him, stepping up to his side. "Relax, I'm jokin'."  
  
Not hard to believe that Stan might be a smoker at this age, but he's empty handed when he appears at Mr. Forrest's side, and looks up at the moon and the passing clouds. It's a nice night, though it looks like it might rain. Stanley doesn't comment on it. "Can't sleep?" He asks finally, glancing over at Clifford. "Me either."  
  
"I've never been able to sleep this early," the teacher shakes his head. "You aren't supposed to be this far from your room. I could write you up for breaking curfew," despite his words, there's a playful twinkle in his eye.  
  
Stan laughs, tossing back his head, "Yeah, sure ya could but where's the fun in that, Doc?" he steps in a little closer, his body giving off heat in Clifford's direction.  
  
"Perhaps if you're being supervised it's alright," Clifford nudges his shoulder into Stan's, and then glances around them. They are well and truly alone. "Would you care to take a walk with me? I spotted a trailhead not too far from here."  
  
"Better than sittin' around in the hotel listenin' to Joey Buratti snore at the top of his lungs." Stan laughs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket-- the one that makes his shoulders look big-- and follows after Mr. Forrest, who leads the way. "A lot quieter here than I thought it'd be. Dunno what I was expectin'." Stan says, glancing around as they start down the trail.  
  
"This is the countryside," Clifford says. "You've been living in the city your whole life. It gets very quiet out here, especially at night."  
  
The forest isn't as quiet as the grave, though. The wind whispers through the trees and rustles the branches, the sound of wildlife scattering around whenever they draw too near chimes out every dozen feet or so, and the crackle of their boots every time they step on a twig keeps them grounded despite how dark it is. It's pitch black, save for the white moonlight filtering in through the pine trees wherever it can reach, illuminating their clouds of breath in front of them. It's goddamn peaceful, is what it is.  
  
"Pops takes us campin' sometimes, whenever he can spare the time, but I wouldn't exactly call it a vacation," Stan mutters quietly, watching out ahead, as if he's expecting a deer or some other creature to leap out at them from the fold of darkness that envelopes the trail. He steps closer to Mr. Forrest in the dark, their arms brushing as they walk, long silences passing between them, with only the sounds of the forest in their ears.  
  
"With grades like you're pulling now, you'll be able to get a job in the future that pays you so well, you'll get to decide for yourself when your vacations are," Clifford smiles fondly down at the boy. "You might even get to be a business owner someday. Pines Auto, perhaps? Or Stanley Pines, the greatest heavyweight boxer the world's ever known."  
  
"Ah jeeze, ya really think so?" Stan chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. Even in the moonlight, it's clear his ears have gone pink. He glances away, and clears his throat, "I couldn'tve done it without you, ya know? You or my brother...maybe someday, when I have my own gym, I'll put up a plaque in your honor or somethin'. Who knows."  
  
"You can't give me all the credit, the wind beneath an airplane's wings means nothing without a pilot at the helm," Clifford smiles down at the boy, his eyes crinkling.  
  
"I don't think ya realize how much ya helped me. Before you came along, I was kinda rudderless, ya know? Besides Ford and Ma, nobody in that town believed in me enough to see that I could do somethin' with my life." Stan shakes his head, and gives a quiet chuckle. "I owe ya a lot."  
  
"Stanley..." Clifford stops walking, and takes the boy by the shoulders, turning him to face him. The moonlight slants across his face, making him look ethereal and wise as he meets Stan's eye. "You have always been able to do anything. There was never a single moment you've been alive in which you didn't have the potential to change the world. Your life has been a long string of people holding you back and stifling you, including yourself. You are capable of so much more than you've ever given yourself credit for. I look at you sometimes and I'm just... overwhelmed."  
  
Stan feels as though his chest is being squeezed in a vice as he listens to Mr. Forrest, watching him in the moonlight, listening to his voice like it's the last song he'll ever need to hear. It's hard to meet his gaze, so eventually his eyes drop down to the trail beneath their feet, and he sniffles, shoulders shaking, unsure of what to say. No one's ever believed in him the way this man has, even his brother's support has been wavering over the years, changing as circumstance does, but Mr. Forrest hasn't ever given up on him.  
  
It aches in Clifford's chest, how desperately he wants to be there with this Stanley for the rest of his life, and knowing that he can't absolutley kills him. He lifts the boy's face by his chin in order to meet his eye again, and reflexively brushes a thumb over his jaw without thinking.  
  
"You are going to be so much more than this world is ever prepared for, Stanley Pines," he whispers. "Mark my words."  
  
Stan, eyes full of love, leans up, tilting his head toward Mr. Forrest's lips but as soon as he does, a raindrop the size of a penny hits Clifford's glasses, then another falls right on Stan's nose, and another until rain starts falling from the sky in sheets. They have no warning as a storm breaks out, and they're forced apart by momentary panic-- and Stanley yelps a moment later as lightning splits the sky and thunder rolls, not so far away.  
  
"What do we do?" Stan asks, terrified--Clifford knows well he's always been scared of thunder.  
  
Clifford, thinking fast, opens his jacket and ushers Stan underneath like a mother duck sheltering a duckling, and jogs with him quickly to a ranger station they'd passed just a minute or so behind them. It's a tiny little shelter, with barely enough room for both of them to sit down, just enough room inside for a desk and chair and radio, with a tiny window that affords them a view of the now pitch-black forest, the clouds overhead choking out any shred of moonlight there might have been a minute ago.  
  
Quickly rifling through his coat, he produces a tiny keychain flashlight and turns it on, setting it on the desk and illuminating the tiny space with faint white light as thunder peals overhead, rattling the tin shack.  
  
"There wasn't supposed to be any rain tonight," his teeth are already chattering as he does his best to wring out the bottom of his now-soaked sweater before it has a chance to seep through to his undershirt.  
  
"Here, take off your shirt, you can have my coat." Stan says, shucking his leather jacket. It's mostly unharmed, only wet on the outside, the silk lining nice and warm from being swaddled around Stanley's body. As thunder peals through the sky again, Stanley flinches, his shoulders  jumping up around his ears.  
  
Clifford drops his soaked cotton peacoat over the back of the chair and tugs his sweater up off his head from the bottom up. The wet fabric catches the bottom of his shirt and rucks it up his stomach before he has a chance to catch it, and in a flash of lightning, Stan's attention is drawn down to his teacher's belly.  
  
Where he might have expected abs and body hair, and he isn't disappointed in the sight of either, what really catches his eye is the fact that the skin of Clifford's stomach is desecrated with scars upon scars, so many of them that it looks like he was tortured by the government or something. Scars of every kind-- lacerations, burns, punctures-- and curling in between them all are dark blue-black inked tentacles, tattooed right over some scars, and ruined or blotted out in other places by scars that came later and tore through the ink. It's so outrageous it looks like costume makeup-- people don't look like that in real life.  
  
"Whoa!" Stan shouts. "What happened to your stomach?!" He's blurted it out before he's really had time to think about the consequences, but that's par for the course, for Stanley. He's always been impulsive in that way. "It looks like somebody took a machete or somethin' to your abs--your abs! Whaddaya doin' with abs, Clifford? Ya look like James Bond!"  
  
Clifford quickly yanks his shirt down, his cheeks burning. "Please don't shout," he says, as if anyone could even hear them all the way out here. Even someone outside the shack wouldn't be able to hear them over the rain coming down on the tin roof in sheets.  
  
"Ahh, sorry." Stan mumurs, rubbing his neck again. "Just took me off guard, is all--where'd ya get all those scars, anyways? And those tattoos?"  
  
"It doesn't matter," Clifford says, compulsively flattening his shirt against his stomach with both hands, as if he could somehow erase the fact that Stan had seen him.  
  
"Okay," Stan says quietly, and he leans on the table, watching the rain fall through the beam of the flashlight. He hangs his head, and shudders again as thunder rolls in the distance, it's getting further away, but it's still far too close for comfort. "I'm sorry." He finally says. "I shouldn't've made a big deal outta it."  
  
Clifford looks across at Stan and sighs softly. "I've just... been through a lot," he says, guilt rising in his chest over the embarrassed look on Stan's face. "I haven't always been a science teacher."  
  
"Yeah, I bet." Stan says, not looking up. He just scrapes at a loose bit of wood on the table, trying to keep his head down. He feels stupid for bringing it to the focus, for even saying anything about it to begin with, it had just taken him so off guard. "It's okay, ya don't gotta tell me. It just startled me."  
  
"I was a... traveler," Clifford says, vaguely. "Got into a lot of trouble before I settled down here. You'd be surprised what kind of mischief a nerd can get into unsupervised."  
  
"Heh, yeah? I bet." Stan replies, trying to keep his voice conversational, but he still feels like an idiot for being so forward.  
  
"Stanley," he reaches out to touch the boy's shoulder. "Look at me. It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just... deeply self conscious about my scars. I never meant for you to see that."  
  
"I'm fine, you're fine. It's fine." Stan says, without looking up, still. "Don't feel bad, I don't want ya to feel bad. Just forget I said anything, okay? Let's just sit in here and wait for the rain to pass. It's fine."  
  
"Stan," he takes him by the shoulder and turns the younger boy to face him. They can barely see eachother, the light is so dim. His heart aches now to see the embarrassment in the boy's face, ducked down and tucked into his shoulder. The last thing he wants is for Stan to feel self-conscious about their relationship, and perhaps selfishly, he wants Stan to _look at him._  
  
There's a warning bell going off in the back of his mind that reminds him that he's an adult and Stanley is a teenager, that he is an authority figure and Stan is his ward, but there's a much louder part of him that has been so desperate for his brother's approval for so many decades that he throws caution to the wind and asks, "Do you want to see them?"  
  
Stan's slow to look up at him, but eventually his eyes travel up, looking at Clifford, the size of dinner plates as he's gripped with the terror that he's ruined something special. He gulps down the lump in his throat, and worries his teeth over his bottom lip. "I don't want ya to think ya have to....it was just a dumb knee-jerk reaction--if you're scared--" he cuts himself off, he can tell by the way Mr. Forrest is looking at him that he just wants a straight answer, so he just nods quietly. Yes, yes he does.  
  
There's a part of him that's still nervous as he grabs the bottom hem of his long-sleeved undershirt and peels it up and off his skin. A moment ago he was freezing, but being in proximity with Stan in such a small space has him feeling more than a little warm at this point.  
  
As he reveals more skin, Stan can see that it isn't just Clifford's stomach that is covered in scars, but his chest and arms as well. It doesn't even look real, there's scarcely a square-inch of skin that hasn't been ruined or painted. Some instinct in Stan tells him to look for the seam of the latex prosthetics, because nobody normal just looks like Clifford does.  
  
There's heat in his teacher's face, as well as shame as he sets the shirt down and leans his hips back against the desk, glancing down at the ground. The sound of Stan swallowing is audible in the quiet room, where only rain keeps them company. He just takes him in, in the thin light of the flashlight, his breath quietly puffing out in bursts of steam, the chilly air swirling between them.  
  
Then, hesitantly, Stanley reaches out and splays his big paws across Clifford's chest and moves them down over his belly, feeling every scar and mark under his fingers, and when he's not pushed off, grows more bold, tracing a few of them with the tips of his fingers, his brows pinched in concentration and worry.  
  
Ford's brain has officially shut off. The part of him reminding him of how inappropriate this situation is has completely left the premises, all he can think about is that Stanley is in front of him and _touching him_ and how long it's been since he's seen his brother and how desperately he misses him and how many years it's been since Stanley touched him, touched him like _this_ \--  
  
With his hands still pressed against his friend's belly, Stan looks up at him and asks quietly, "Do they hurt?"  
  
Blinking sluggishly, he meets Stan's eye. "Not anymore," he murmurs, his voice low, his face burning.  
  
Stanley's fingers linger there awhile longer--the pulse in his belly has shot lower, throbbing hard between his legs, and he thanks all the powers that be that Clifford can't see it in the dark. He runs his hands up over his teacher's ribs, cupping his chest--he wants to move in closer, God does he want to, but he's scared. He watches Clifford's chin duck down against his chest, his eyes downcast and half-hooded, afraid to look up at Stan and acknowledge what's happening between them right now. He can hear Clifford's breath speeding up, feel the way his chest rises and falls quicker.  
  
He should stop this, he knows he should. Guiltily, he understands that they're only in this position because of his inability to control himself. But it's hard for him to linger on that guilt when his entire body and mind are both consumed by heat, and the sensation of Stan's hands on his stomach.  
  
Every inch that Stanley's fingers touch leaves behind tingling trails of heat in places that haven't been touched by those hands in years, even if they're six fingered and not exactly the hands he remembers-- it's Stanley, and that's enough to feed the hunger that's built up over the years, but as soon as it's started, Stan seems to realize too that he's not exactly being appropriate, because he pulls away. His fingers linger in the air a moment after, and his face fills with red.  
  
In the dark, Stanley presses his thighs together, trying to hide the effects of touching his idol the way he just did, but he's hard and even if Clifford can't see it, it's written all over Stan's face, he'd know that look anywhere, even here, in a different corner of the multiverse. Stan will always be himself.  
  
"Shit, sorry," The young man gulps thickly, and turns away to give Clifford some privacy, trying to shake the cotton out of his head with a shiver of his shoulders. "Ya don't--you're still...." he curses under his breath. "Ya still look good."  
  
Shivering himself, and not from the chill, Clifford pulls his shirt back on as the guilt starts to overwhelm him now that the heat has a chance to fade. The desperation to touch Stanley is still there, but it wouldn't be fair to him. To either of them, truly.  
  
"Thank you," he says, his voice rougher than he would like. "It... sounds like the rain is letting up. We should get back while we have a chance."  
  
The walk back is silent and a bit tense-- but it's a kind of tension that isn't completely unwelcome. It's simply a matter of neither of them really knowing whether to act on it, or how they even could if they wanted to. When they arrive at the motel, Mr. Forrest looks like he wants to say something to him, but he turns away to go to his own room without a word.  
  
They're piled into the busses the next morning and Stan catches a glimpse of him, from across the sea of students being organized into their respective vehicles. He looks haggard, like he hasn't slept a wink, and he holds short but meaningful eye contact with Stan from across the crowd, apparently confident that the boy won't approach him with so many people around-- and Stan doesn't. He's shepherded onto the bus along with everyone else, and he spends the rest of the ride back wondering what that look meant. His night is restless leading up to the next school day, Mr. Forrest can't avoid him if he's stuck in a classroom.  
  
Stanley's exhausted by the time they settle in their seats, the bell feels harsh in his ears. His pencil taps against the notebook on his desk as he waits anxiously for the teacher to arrive. But as the minutes tick past the time for class to start, Mr. Forrest still isn't there. Stan forces himself to stay calm, despite the bouncing in his leg and the tapping of his pencil. Ford leans over to whisper,  
  
"Stanley? Are you okay?"  
  
"I'm great," Stan hastily answers, and then nearly jumps to his feet when he hears he classroom door open. His head whips around and ice drops into his stomach when a man he doesn't recognize comes into the room, with black hair and a thick mustache.  
  
"Hello kids," the man says, setting his bag on the desk. "I'm Mr. Graves. Mr. Forrest is feeling a bit under the weather, so I'll be your substitute for a few days."  
  
Stan raises his hand immediately, and doesn't even wait for the substitute to call on him before he speaks, out of turn, "Is he okay? Mr. Forrest, I mean. Ya said he's under the weather, do ya know what happened? Is he sick?"  
  
There's some laughter from behind him, and Stan whips around to give the back of the class a hard glare, though he can't pinpoint who exactly had been chuckling at his expense. His glower's enough to silence them for now, and he turns back to Mr. Graves expectently.  
  
"I didn't speak to the man personally, I'm afraid," Mr. Graves says as he starts to unpack his bag. "I'm just passing along what administration told me when they called me in. So, you kids were learning about terminal velocity, huh? That's fun fun stuff!"  
  
Ford and Stan lock eyes from side by side, his brother giving him a Look as he tries to decipher exactly why Stan's so interested in the whereabouts of their teacher. Stan's first rational thought is that Mr. Forrest had caught a cold when they'd been caught in the downpour a few nights ago-- he tries not to jump to any irrational conculsions, but considering how they'd left things, Stanley can't help but feel all of this has something to do with that night in the ranger's station. However, he has no proof of it, just a substitute teacher who's a little too eager about science, and that isn't really hard evidence of anything other than Mr. Forrest's absence.  
  
However, when class lets out, his heartfelt worry turns to anger as word of his concern spreads through the school, and he spends the day getting mocked over it, with students calling him gay for teacher, and worse things by far, so that by the end of the school day Stanley's in no mood to hear another word from anyone on the subject, including Ford, but he gives his brother at least a little more leeway, knowing any questions he has about it would be purely for worry's sake.  
  
Blessedly, Ford doesn't seem to have it in him to grill him about the teacher. Monday passes into tuesday, the first of their biweekly study sessions, and he comes into class to... once again, be greeted by Mr. Graves.  
  
As well as the next day, and the next. Both of their usual lesson times pass without a single word on the whereabouts of the man. It occurs to Stan then that he has no means of contacting his friend, he doesn't know his address or home phone number-- if Mr. Forrest had decided to skip town, Stan would never, ever see him again.  
  
He starts to worry that he'd freaked the teacher out so badly that he was gone for good, that he left the school to scramble to find a replacement. His agitation grows with each passing day. He doesn't snap at Ford, but he's quiet around his brother, and any sort of attempts at bullying by other students in school is met with hostility, to the point that Stan's been sentenced to a few rounds of in-school suspension to cool off after threatening a student for saying something in passing, that in all honesty hadn't warranted such a response.  
  
He's on a tear, hardly speaking to Ford, barely acknowledging their mother, and every day that passes, he only grows more tense with Mr. Forrest absent. It's only a matter of time before he blows his lid, and it's hard to say who will be on the receiving end of that dam bursting.  
  
When the next Monday comes, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would have to look at Mr. Graves stupid face for the rest of the year before he flunked out of high school with grades that would plummet in Mr. Forrest's absence. But he hears the familiar click of Clifford's polished shoes on the tile hall outside the classroom before he even sees him enter, recognizing the sound of his confident stride with a giddy flutter in his stomach.  
  
That giddiness slowly fades when he realizes that Clifford is pointedly not looking in his direction. But at least he's fucking _there_.  
  
"Whoa-hey! Look what the cat dragged in!" Stanley jokes as soon as the man enters. "We all thought you was dead!"  
  
More laughter at the back of class, but Stan hardly cares now, he's so hyper focused on Mr. Forrest that he hardly registers anything else in the room at all, including his brother, who seems to be taking him in very carefully now. "Where ya been, Mr. F? Didja get puh-neumonia and hadda go to the hospital? I had that once-- couldn't stop pukin' on the bus."  
  
There's a chorus of "oooooohhhh" from the back of the class when Mr. Forrest turns away to face the board without replying to Stan, without even looking at him.  
  
"What's the matter Pines? Broke up with your boyfriend?" someone hisses from the back of the class, echoed by the nasty laughter from several other students.  
  
Mr. Forrest very calmly turns around and writes something down on a pad of paper before ripping it off and holding it out in front of him. "Eagles, Wayland, Oglestreet, Klein. Report to ISS."  
  
There's stunned silence in the classroom. Nobody had ever been sent to the principal's office in Mr. Forrest's class, much less suspension. The students who had been jeering a moment later angrily stand and snatch the paper from his hand, leaving the room in a furious herd. Still calm as a cucumber, Mr. Forrest turns back to face the board.  
  
Stan lowers his head and scribbles something nonsensical into the corner of his homework. Those students will probably look for retribution later, but he'll think about that when the time comes. Right now, he's trying to understand why Mr. Forrest is ignoring him, so swallows the tightness in his throat and tries his voice again.  
  
"What're we studyin' today, Mr. Forrest? Last week that idiot didn't know much, maybe we oughtta go over terminal velocity again."  
  
"Stanley, what are you doing?" Ford hisses under his breath, as Mr. Forrest finishes writing up the lesson plan for the day on the board, still outright ignoring him.  
  
Tears prickle in Stan's eyes, and he licks his lips, glancing sidelong at his brother for only a moment, "What're we uh--what...?" his lips tremble, and embarrassment blossoms in his face, bleeding red into his ears, across his cheeks and down his neck.  
  
Ford gives him a concerned look, but Mr. Forrest finally starts talking, and it's just to finally say good morning to the class. He launches into the day's lesson, following on the heels of Mr. Graves without missing a beat, and somehow manages to avoid Stan's eye through the entire class period.  
  
Sensing that something happened, when the bell rings Ford puts a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I'll wait around the corner?" he offers in a low whisper while everyone else starts to shuffle out to lunch.  
  
Stan gives him a nod, and lingers for a moment in the doorway after watching him leave. Then, he turns back to Mr. Forrest, who's sitting at his desk and pointedly looking down at the papers on its surface, which he's absently rearranging.  
  
"So uh--haha...crazy day, right?" Stan grunts, walking over to the desk to sit in the chair he always sits in, but then he realizes it's not there--it's been moved to the back of the class--so he just stands awkwardly in front of Mr. Forrest's desk, turning redder by the second. "Look, can we just talk? What happened? Why're you actin' so weird?" Stan's finding it hard to keep his voice even, worry, anger, frustration, all of it's dripping from his words and there's no controlling it. "Why won't you even look at me."  
  
Clifford's shoulders sag and he shakes his head, muttering something softly under his breath as he reaches up to massage the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. He'd so hoped that taking a week off would take off some of the edge between himself and Stanley... but he should have known better. He should have known Stan better.  
  
"You know why," he says, finally, without looking up at the boy as he packs a folder into his messenger bag. He respects Stan too much to attempt lying to him.  
  
Stan turns away from him, to try and collect himself, his voice shaking, "Cuz I saw you?" he asks, his voice pathetic and small, tight in his throat. "Cuz I touched you?"  
  
Clifford sighs and stands up, leaning on his hands on the desk. "No, Stanley. Not because of anything you did. You didn't do anything wrong. I made a mistake, not you. We can't talk about this."  
  
"So..." Stan growls, standing up straight, his shoulders broadening, chest expanding, his fists clenching as he turns around to face his teacher. "What? You're done with me? Just like that?" His lips curl into a snarl, "Coward."  
  
Ford feels his heart shatter apart in his chest. This isn't what he wanted, this pain he's causing the boy is exactly the opposite of what he wanted. He wanted to swoop in and save him from a lifetime of misery and suffering the likes of which he couldn't save his own Stanley from, and then disappear without a trace once he's on the road to success. He didn't want the poor boy to get attached to him, but perhaps that's his fault for underestimating the cosmic bond that he and Stanley have.  
  
"Perhaps I am," he says, without looking up. "If that's what you would like to call it. It's up to me to keep our relationship professional. It's my job to be a mentor, an aid-- not a--" he can't even bring himself to use the word lover, the implication hits him too near to the chest. "I behaved incredibly inappropriately. I can only hope you'll forgive me someday."  
  
"I'll never forgive you," Stan barks. "You--! I could feel it! You wanted me to..." he curses under his breath, unable to even get the words out, too angry and hurt to coherently articulate what he's trying to say. Tears prickle in his eyes, and trace down in lines down his face, and his voice breaks, cracking in his throat.  
  
"I trusted you--I thought you was different from the rest of the adults in my life, but you're just as bad as the rest of them," Stanley gasps through his tears, breath shuddering, and he shakes his head.  
  
Clifford visibly flinches when Stan says he'll never forgive him, and he ducks his chin into his chest, struggling to breathe evenly. "Stanley, please," he whispers, looking back over his shoulder as he watches the shadow of a group of students pass by his window. "We can't do this here. You know we can't. This is the last thing you want to get caught talking about."  
  
"You're right. This _is_ the last thing I wanna talk about-- with _you!_ EVER!" Stan grabs his bookbag and tosses it over his shoulder. "Leave me the hell alone! You're never gonna see me in this stupid class again! I'll drop outta school if I have to just so I don't have to see your face ever again!"  
  
And with that, he storms out into the hall, past his brother, tears seeping down his cheeks, anger boiling in every vein in his body.  
  
Clifford staggers back against the wall and slides down to sit on the floor, feeling suddenly very small and helpless. He covers his face with both hands and sits curled into the wall, breathing deeply just to keep from breaking out into sobs.  
  
He's been to a lot of dimensions before, he's seen a lot of tragedies and suffered a lot of losses, but nothing has been quite this bad before, not since he lost his own brother eighteen years ago. This feels just as bad as that-- potentially worse, because he'd come along to forcefully insert himself in this Stan's life, only to hurt him this badly, and be hurt in turn.  
  
There are no words to describe the anguish he feels at being described as just as bad as the rest of the adults in Stan's life. It would have hurt less if Stan stabbed him and twisted the knife. He's _been_ stabbed before. It hurt less than this.  
  
"Stan--" Ford jogs to catch up with his brother, reaching out to grab his sleeve when he doesn't slow down. "I heard yelling-- what happened?"  
  
Stan jerks out of his brother's hold, twisting around, wild eyed and looking like he might take a swing, "He's a piece of trash, that's what! He--! It doesn't matter..." Stan takes a deep breath, and just looks at Ford. "None of it matters, not anymore. Just go to lunch, Poindexter. I'm leavin'."  
  
Ford flinches back, looking for a moment like he was afraid Stan was actually going to hit him. He's so startled by it that he just stands there, watching his brother leave through a side door and walk across the green like he wants to set fire to something. He's shaken and worried, and part of him wants to run after Stan, but... he's never skipped school before, not once, and he's too afraid to start now. He'll catch up with him after school and make sure he's okay.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is underage smut in this chapter, by a margin of a couple months so be wary!

It isn't unusual for Stan to be home late, now and then, even on school nights. It's gotten to the point that Ford wouldn't ordinarily worry about it, seeing as neither of his parents seem to care either. But when that night stretches from eight to nine and into ten pm without word from his brother, he starts to get really anxious.   
  
Which is why when the telephone rings, he's up in a flash. Both of his parents are already in bed at 10:30 and he doesn't want them to yell about the telephone, so he crosses the bedroom, hallway and living room in about 1.5 steps and picks up the phone after the second ring.  
  
"Hello?" he says, hoping to hear Stan's voice.   
  
"A collect call is coming in from Glass Shard Correctional Holding, do you accept?" comes the voice of a secretary, and Ford's stomach drops into the center of the earth. That's the name of their local _jail_.   
  
"Yes," he murmurs, lowering his voice to try and sound like a more adult man, "I accept."  
  
The phone starts to ring. There is a click on the other end of the phone, then a shaking, shuddering sob and Stanley's hoarse voice comes over the speaker, "Ma? It's Stan..."  
  
"Stanley, it's Ford," Ford quickly interjects, looking back over his shoulder. He doesn't hear any movement from the hallway, so he's pretty sure the coast is clear. "What _happened_ , what did you _do?"_  
  
"I got in a fight--a bad one." Stanley replies, his voice crackling over the poor connection, intermittent with sniffles, his accent is thicker than usual. "I got in a bad fight, and the police came. They got me in holdin' now and-- I think they're gonna take me to jail, Stanford. They're talkin' about probation and a lotta other stuff, I dunno. I'm scared." He starts to cry, sobbing through his words, Ford can no longer understand him, but it sounds like Stanley's pleading for his help, from what he can understand of the jibberish, he's talking too fast to really be understood.  
  
"Okay, okay, calm down Stanley," Ford clutches the phone to his ear, whispering as loud as he dares. "I'll get you out of this, I promise. Are you hurt bad? Are you okay?"  
  
"I godda black eye, and my nose is broke. I think." Stan grumbles. "The other guy's worse--I think he might be pressin' charges."  
  
"That's not so bad," Ford says. "I'll find a way to get you out of this without involving dad, I promise. You'll get so much worse if he finds out... I'll take care of this, I swear. Even if I have to come down and break you out myself I'll get you out."  
  
"Okay, Stanford. I godda go. They're doin' intake. See yiz." Ford doesn't get to so much as say goodbye before the reciever clicks and the line goes dead.  
  
Ford is left there in silence for a few moments, shaken to his core. He has no idea how to get someone out of jail. It takes a lot of money to bail people out, he knows that much-- money they don't have. Dad would sooner let Stan go to jail than spend the money to get him out, and considering how close they are to turning 18, this could wind up on Stan's permanent adult record. This could affect the rest of his _life_.   
  
In a panic, he does the only thing he can think to do. He calls the operator and asks them to patch him through to Clifford Forrest.   
  
Stan doesn't know what time it is, exactly, when there's a bang at the front of the holding cell he's been sharing with four other men for the past few hours. "Pines," the officer shouts. "You got bail. On your feet."  
  
Stan gets to his feet and shuffles miserably out of the cell without looking up at the police officer. He knows by the time they get down that hall, that his father is probably going to be at the end of it with the wrath of God prepared to rain down on his head, but when the officer takes him out into the reception area to fill out his release papers, he's greeted by the sight of Mr. Forrest, of all people.   
  
He's shocked, to say the least, and fills in the release forms in a stupor, glancing up from them to Mr. Forrest, trying to figure out why he's here after the argument they'd had--after the things Stan had said to him. By all accounts, he should be too angry and hurt to have showed up to bail him out of jail, under the radar of his father no less, but when the officers release him in to the custody of Mr. Forrest, Stan has a hard time meeting his gaze.   
  
"Ya didn't hafta come," He mumurs, and now up close, his teacher can see the wear of the hits he's taken--a lash across his nose, dried blood around his nostrils, and a black eye swollen shut and bruising down his chin and across his forehead. He's seen better days, to be sure.  
  
"Of course I did," Clifford says softly. "Come on, let's get you home."  
  
He wraps a hand around Stan's shoulders to guide him out of the station just to pose as family for the benefit of them not asking questions, but as soon as they're outside, that hold on his shoulder drops. He opens the passenger door of his yellow pinto and gestures wordlessly for Stan to climb inside.   
  
Sitting behind the wheel, he pulls out of the parking lot without a word. Stan expects a lecture, but it doesn't come.  
  
Street lights pass them by, flickering like candlelight across their faces. City streets move along, the dark shapes of people shuffling home after a late night visible only through the headbeams of the car when they happen to cross paths, then they're gone again--and Stan Pines sits with his hands folded between his legs and his shoulders hunched, trying to think of the right thing to say that would make everything better.   
  
"I'm sorry," Is what he settles on, lamely.  
  
Clifford sighs, and turns on his blinker, taking a detour away from the main drag in order to park in the empty overhang lot that overlooks the beach just a stone's throw away from home. He turns the car off, bathing them both in darkness, and it takes several seconds for their eyes to adjust to the thin white light of the moon that filters in from the windows.   
  
He'd wanted to avoid this. The idea of meeting up with Stan in the middle of the night in private to talk about how they almost kissed in a shed feels... almost predatory, in a sense. Ford is supposed to be his mentor, his guiding hand, his authority figure, trusted and respected and most definitely law-abiding, but this...  
  
Well. He should have known better than to think he could ever resist Stanley, in any form.  
  
"You have to understand that this... can't happen," he says softly. "I know you want it to. I know you feel like it's right, but-- we can't do this... this. This thing you want, this thing you're hoping for, we can't do it."  
  
Stan's lips draw into a thin line, and he takes a deep breath, his vitriol gone, beaten out of him in the fight earlier--really, there always has to be a breaking point in Stan's anger. Usually, it's their father's fist, but this time he hadn't been around to punch the life out of him, so in a sense, Stan had gone looking for someone else to do it.   
  
"Why?" He asks, his voice tight. "I'm almost eighteen--I'm gonna turn eighteen in six months. What's stoppin' us? I know ya want to--I could tell. That night when we was in the ranger's station, and I touched yiz...I could tell ya liked it, and I liked it too. Why can't we just try? I promise I'll be secretive about it, nobody ever has to know. It'll just be you and me, and when I turn eighteen we can get the hell outta this stupid town."  
  
Clifford looks across the cabin at Stan, his heart aching all the way into his soul. He reaches across him to pop the glove box and takes out a small first aid kit, lifting the center console and folding it into the seat so he can scoot a little closer while he unzips the kit, and rips open an alcohol swab. He dabs it across the cuts on his forehead and eye, his cheeks burning.   
  
"You are such a special boy, Stanley Pines," he whispers it, almost reverent as he wipes away the alcohol with a tissue. "Being a part of your life these past months have meant everything to me, in ways I can't even begin to describe to you, in ways I'm not sure you could ever understand."  
  
Stan's eye wells with tears, the other so swollen that only a few drops leak out of the tear duct. He sniffles pathetically, his mouth drawing tight again, and he holds Clifford's gaze, his chin lifted high, almost prideful though he's calm.   
  
"Why won't you even lemme try to understand?" He asks quietly. "I could--I got a lot to give, ya know?"  
  
He almost breaks and tells him everything. It would feel so good to tell him what happened, tell him everything that transpired between himself and his own Stan, tell him about Bill and what he tricked Ford into doing... but that isn't the point of this. That would be a level of selfishness he could never justify. He's here to give this Stanley a better life and then disappear from the world as silently and suddenly as he'd come. He'd only complicate things for him if he confirmed for the boy that demons and monsters and the multiverse exist. He's already complicating things enough just by allowing the boy to get attached.  
  
 "I-- I won't be here for very much longer, Stanley. I shouldn't have let it go this far, but I--" what can he even say? That he loves him? How could he explain that? "I needed... you."  
  
Stan's heart, despite the pain of the last few days, blooms again with hope anew, hearing those few words. He'd needed him? He closes his eyes and just lets silence pass between them for a few moments, drinking in the feeling of being touched by Clifford, even if the moment's fleeting. If this is the last time they'll ever see each other, he wants to commit every second of it to memory, so he can hold it in his heart forever.   
  
"I need you too." He finally says, eyes opening, and he looks up at his mentor, his lips trembling. "I never been sure of many things in my life, Cliff...but I need ya," He swallows hard, tilting his head up to get a better look at him. "I need ya bad."  
  
"I don't think you understand, Stanley," Clifford says, resting a hand against his chest. "I mean it quite literally when I say that I can't stay. By next august at the latest, I'm going to have to disappear, and... you're never going to see me again. You have your whole life ahead of you, and I'm... I'm here to make sure you have every opportunity to live that life to the fullest, but I can't be a part of it. I'm so, so sorry."  
  
Stan just growls under his breath. Being rejected, yet again, he isn't sure he has it in him to persist. It feels like nothing he says can breach the gap between them-- Clifford's dead set on remaining distant, and at some point, he's just going to have to accept that that's the way things are. Defeat, however, has never been something that Stanley's taken lying down, he at least wants to know--  
  
"Why?" He asks, hand falling to Clifford's wrist, stilling his work as he dabs at the blood on his face. "Why can't ya stay? Why can't I go with yiz? What's so important that--" Stanley curses under his breath as his voice shakes. "What's so important that ya can't let me go with ya? Why can't we just--why can't we just make it work?"  
  
"I'm in trouble, Stanley. I can't say more than that," Clifford murmurs. "I won't involve you in my life, I... I care about you too deeply to put you in that kind of danger. It wouldn't be fair to you to pursue this, only for me to disappear in a few months."  
  
He reaches up, cupping the side of Stan's face, and he brushes his thumb delicately across the swollen skin of his black eye. "No matter how badly I want to."  
  
Stan takes the opportunity then, to close the gap between them. He wraps his arms around Clifford in a crushing embrace and kisses him deeply, their teeth clacking together for a moment with the force of Stan's body hitting him; then that passion gives way to something softer and deeper, Stan's hands exploring his teacher's broad back, Stanley's body exactly as he remembers it, the feeling of him pressed right up against him bridging the gap where memory and present-day disconnect, so it's like no time at all has passed, and he's right there--right there, at home, with Stanley in his arms again.  
  
Tears fill his eyes as he returns the kiss, turning sideways with his back to the door so Stan can crowd deeply into his space in the tiny cabin of his pinto. He gasps into his mouth, their tongues greeting one another with passion and desperation. The tears roll down Clifford's cheeks as he realizes how painfully, intrinsically he'd missed this. Leaving when it comes time is going to be so much harder.   
  
"Stanley," he gasps, but it's not a protest. It comes exhaled on a moan,  and he pushes his glasses up into his hair so he can return the kiss with force.   
  
"Let me. Please," Stan whispers, his voice hoarse and soft and so familiar, like an echo from the past, pleading for better times. He drops his mouth to Clifford's neck and kisses up and down, his lips tickling down his mentor's jaw and back up to his mouth, whispering a soft plea again. Don't stop, please don't stop.  
  
Every logical part of Ford's body screams at him to say no, to not prolong it, to cut it off here and just live with his guilt over his selfishness, but he takes one look at that handsome face and just like every other time in his life, he caves to the whims of those gorgeous blue eyes.  
  
"Yes," he gasps, "Please, please."  
  
Stan's voice goes thin, high in his nose as he groans and finds Clifford's mouth again, and he tilts his head into the kiss, forgetting the pain he's in, drawing in close and tight until he's sitting in the man's lap, an awkward angle with their heads brushing the roof of the car, but it's such a desperately needed moment that neither of them care. And Stan grinds down against him, thrilled by the swell of him against his body, his own responding in kind and murmurs something under his breath--a soft groan of need, urging Clifford to touch him even as he grabs the man's arm and loops it around his waist.   
  
"Don't go." He mutters, softly and into his mentor's mouth, sobbing against his lips. "Please don't go."  
  
Clifford says nothing, he just opens his mouth into the kiss and wraps his arms around the boy's stocky waist, holding him against his chest as he grinds his hips up to meet him. It's fast and dirty and desperate, but he needs it.   
  
"Stanley," he moans, his head dropping back against the window, which has started to fog up as the temperature inside the car increases. Stan's mouth connects with his throat and he forgets how to breathe, his hips jerking up against the boy's clothed ass through his slacks. He was so certain that Stan would feel small in his arms just because of how old he is compared to his brother now, but he still feels as huge and insurmountable as ever, heavy and comforting and musky against him.   
  
Stan grinds down into his lap, so thrilled by the feeling of Clifford's body responding to him that he can barely think of anything else but the desperate need to feel more of him--he's never been with a boy like this, he's thought of it plenty of times, but it's never come up, and why would it? He's never pursued it, but he knows without a doubt that being with Clifford feels right, he's never been so certain of anything in his life.   
  
He loops his arms around Clifford's neck and thrusts down with more purpose, grinding hard against him before dipping in to take his lips again, their stubble rasping together--it'd been easy to dismiss Stanley as a youthful boy, and while he might be just on the cusp of eighteen, it's hard to dismiss him now when he's bearing down on him and feels so like the man he knew years ago.  
  
Clifford-- _Ford_ is so strung out, so desperate for his brother that it only takes him a matter of a couple minutes to climax, moaning so loud that it would have been dangerous if they were anywhere but an empty parking lot, his hips stuttering up against Stan's ass. He feels like a teen again, flat on his back in the back seat of Stan's caddy with his brother between his legs, making out with him until he came in his pants. In a sense, this is exactly that, give or take a couple decades.   
  
"Stanley," he moans into his throat, his voice hitching as he yanks him by the hips to continue grinding, tugging him so  his hard cock rubs against his teacher's equally hard stomach. "You too, Stanley."  
  
"Please--please..." Stanley groans, rutting against Ford's belly--he makes his own leverage, one hand braced on the dashboard, the other on the seat of the car, and he thrusts against Ford's abs, so hard they feel like heaven under him, gliding against his wet jeans until he comes with a cry that ends on a low growl, and he grabs a fistful of Ford's shirt, panting and trying to regain his composure.  
  
"Oh, Stanley," Ford whispers, holding him around the waist as he shivers and comes down. "Oh Stanley..."  
  
He kisses him across his unbruised cheek, across his lips to his neck, up to his ear and down to his shoulder-- he kisses him everywhere he can reach. He breaks off into a quiet sob as a part of his soul soars in tandem with another part crashing down to rock bottom. This is what he's desired for so, so long, but to finally allow it and indulge will mean he'll miss it all the more keenly when he has to go.   
  
"You're such a good boy," he murmurs, threading his hands into Stan's short hair. "You mean so much to me."  
  
Stanley leans into Mr. Forrest's chest and just sobs, nuzzling up under his chin like a cat, despite the fact that he's a full grown man in his own right. Still clutching a fistful of his turtleneck, the young man gasps for air as tears stream down his cheeks and he pleads, "Please, please... you can't go. It'll hurt too much, you cant."  
  
Ford squeezes his eyes shut, trying to hold back tears of his own. He was so, so afraid of this.   
  
"It's not for a long time," he murmurs, cupping the boy's face and leaning him back so he can meet his eye. "You have me until then. I'm right here. I'm here."  
  
It's not everything Stan ever wanted, but it's better than he had just a few hours ago, and that's all he can ask for, right now. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is fairly graphic rape in this chapter, so please be cautious when reading. take care of yourselves and make good choices

Stan has never been so relieved in his life as when he woke up the morning after being bailed out of jail to encounter his father at a normal, baseline level of grumpiness. He'd snuck in close to midnight, with Ford on lookout to let him in the back door. He helped him to bed and covered for him that morning, informing their parents that Stan had gotten into it with a bully from school, and had avoided coming home until late because he was afraid mom and dad would be angry at him for getting smacked around.   
  
Filbrick asks if Stan hit the other kid back twice as good. He _almost_ looks proud when Stan says he gave him a concussion. But still, he grounds him from using the Stanmobile for a week all the same.  
  
The relief continues when later that day, Clifford informs him that the man he'd gotten into a fight with conveniently and mysteriously decided to drop all charges. The teacher won't say how he got it done, just that it won't be a problem.   
  
And life goes on.   
  
They share glimpses in class when nobody else is looking, and their feet brush one another under the desk that tuesday during their lesson, even though Clifford won't let the subject stray for a moment from the task at hand, it still feels... warm.   
  
In a certain sense, Ford deeply regrets ever letting Stan get this close. He knows there's no way to clean break from this situation when the time comes, he knows Stan will be hurt no matter what he says or does, no matter how he says goodbye or doesn't. He knows when it comes time for it, there will be no right answer. But for once, Ford lets himself live in the present, instead of the future. He lets himself enjoy something good while it happens, after all knowing that he will be sad later is all the more reason to be happy now.   
  
Life feels alright, for a change. The turbulance he'd experienced with Mr. Forrest has been put behind him, and Stan tries, for now, not to think of the day that he might turn up to class and the man's jus gone. Mr. Graves' appearance had sort of been a practice run for that day, but knowing it's coming will make it easier, to cope with when the time comes. At least, he hopes. Being grounded though, does put a damper on his spirits.   
  
The Stanmobile is his link to the outside world, in a lot of ways. He often takes her for a cruise around town when he's bored, or he needs to clear his head, so not having that outlet is making him a little more anxious and rowdy than usual--but his end of the week boxing lesson comes at just the right time to get some of that pent up aggression out, so he's looking forward to that.   
  
On his way to that lesson, he stops in the science room, knocking on the door after class and steps inside to find Mr. Forrest busy, grading papers. "What's up, Doc?" he banters jokingly. "How's the learnin' curve this time around? Does it look like I'm gonna pass?"  
  
"It would be unprofessional of me to discuss grades on school property," Clifford smiles, looking up from his desk. "But frankly, if your grades were any higher, you could teach this class for me."  
  
"Whoa-ho! Careful, I might just take your job." Stan leans against the doorframe, he's wearing his boxing gear with his custom-made gloves slung around his shoulders. He cuts quite the figure in that outfit, and he can definitely feel his mentor sizing him up.   
  
"I was thinkin' maybe you could pick me up after my boxin' lesson today--ya know, since I'm grounded n'all." He tilts his head to look at Clifford with a grin. "Maybe me and you could get a milkshake before ya take me home."  
  
Clifford smiles. "I like peanutbutter," he says, crossing his ankles. "Just give me the place and time." He doesn't truly need it, but he takes the scrap of paper anyway when Stan hands it over, as a formality. He remembers exactly where Stan's lessons used to be, even after he stopped attending them himself, he would go sometimes just to watch his brother move.   
  
"I'll be there," he says, standing up from behind his desk and catching Stan with a hand to his chest when he tries to move in closer. "You know the rule," he says lowly. He's put forth a strict No Canoodling At School rule since that night in the car, and though it's torture for Stan to obey, it's kept them safe so far.   
  
"Mmmrgh. Alright, you get off lucky this time, but next time you'll get off even _luckier_." Stan laughs over his shoulder before he's headed off, out the door. "Smell ya later."   
  
He walks to his lesson, as it's not too far from the school. He's still bruised up from the fight earlier in the week, but that doesn't stop him from throwing himself into his lesson, and really giving it to his sparring partner. His head is elsewhere, however, fists on autopilot as each hit has him feeling more pumped up than before, until all he can think of is the car ride home with Clifford, and the question he intends to pop the first chance he gets. "Boyfriend" is maybe too juvenile for someone his age, but... well, it's a little early to propose marriage.   
  
His coach Tony was all about pushing him to his limits; sometimes Stan would come home with jelly arms, unable to grip a fork from exhaustion. The old guy reminded him of his father in a lot of ways, which could sometimes be a good thing when he needed the extra little burst of adrenaline to finish nailing down a move, that's when Tony's voice yelling in his ear reminded him so strongly of his father that he would rather punch his own arm off than disappoint-- but sometimes it was a bad thing. Occasionally he would lock up if Tony's posture or tone of voice got just a little too aggressive, for just a harrowing second before his instinct to fight kicked back in.  
  
Today was a good day, though. He's sweaty as hell, like he always is after practice, and the sun has gone down by now, the crisp january evening comfortably cool on his overheated skin. He's feeling slick and confident, carrying a healthy teenage musk and the high of a good training session puffing his chest out. Stanley's ready to knock his teacher out, pumped up and sexy. He blows out a breath of anticipation, heart thumping against his chest as he glances back up at the clock. It's just five after seven, Clifford should be here any minute now.  
  
"Hey, Stanley," he hears Tony's heavily accented voice from behind him call out as the door opens. "Come on back in here, I got somethin' I gotta talk to you about."  
  
Stanley shucks his boxing gloves and after tying them together, loops them over his shoulders and heads back to his coach's office, shutting the door behind him. When prompted to take a seat, he does so, getting comfortable in one of the leather armchairs across from his desk, looking hopeful and bright eyed, looking for praise that he'd done well today.   
  
"What's up, coach?"  
  
"I'll tell ya what's up," Tony crosses his thick arms over his chest, standing up on the other side of the desk rather than taking a seat himself. The gym is empty by now, everyone else has gone home. It's just the two of them, alone in the entire building. "I uh-- saw somethin'," Tony starts, clearing his throat, staring down at Stan through the mirrored sunglasses he wears at all times, including indoors and at night. "Somethin' you probably uhh-- didn't want nobody to see."  
  
Stan isn't sure what he's talking about, not yet. He glances around, like he's expecting someone else to appear, but nobody does so he shifts in his seat and asks, "Uuh, whaddid ya see, Tony?"  
  
"Earlier this week," Tony says quickly. He seems nervous. "Went out for a smoke on the pier. I saw you. In the car. With that man."  
  
Stan squares his jaw, and frowns. "I dunno what you're talkin' about." he gets to his feet.  
  
"I think you do," Tony circles around the desk and grabs Stan by the shoulder, shoving him back down onto his ass. "I know what I saw, boy. I saw you out there steamin' up the windows of that car with that faggot that blew into town a few months back. Yeah, I seen you both, seen you climbin' all around on him. Heard him cryin' your name like a woman."  
  
Stanley growls under his breath, his head hung low, shaking from side to side for a moment to try and clear the red that's clouding his vision. Normally, when Tony shoves him around, it's in good fun, they're working on his moves, getting his technique down, but now all that's gone and the man's hit a nerve--if there's one thing Stan hates, it's being shoved around, but he's just scared enough of Tony that he takes it.   
  
"Ya don't know nothin' about it." Stan finally says, looking up at him from beneath a deep glare. "So shut up, Tony and mind your own damn business."  
  
"I bet that pa of yours'd be real disappointed to find out one of his sons is a faggot," Tony continues, unhindered. "And not even the son everyone expected would be, neither. I bet ya both are, but all I got is proof of one of ya's."  
  
Stan sucks his teeth, and gets to his feet again, knowing full well he might be pushed back again. He turns his head to look up at Tony and snarls, "I could break your jaw, old man."  
  
"I think you'd be dumb as shit to try," Tony squares off. "I think you got somethin' you can offer me to buy my silence, and I think you know exactly what I'm talkin' about. If you don't get wise, not only am I gonna tell your old man what I saw, I'm gonna make sure that queer teacher of yours gets run all the way outta town-- if nobody beats his ass in an alley on his way out, first."  
  
Stan surges forward and grabs Tony by the front of the shirt, "You try anything and I'll do worse than that, ya no good, rotten sonuvabitch. I'll make ya eat your own fists after I break every one of those knuckles."  
  
"You want me to go around tellin' everyone what I saw, you little cocksucker?" Tony grabs Stan by the wrist and twists his hand, and with Stan at the disadvantage of just coming off a couple hours of punching, his hands are weaker than Tony's. "I'm doin' you a favor, kid. Keepin' my mouth shut is cheap, but it ain't free. All it'll take is a little work on your part, and just like that, we'll have ourselves a deal."  
  
Stan groans as his arm is bent backward, and he staggers, weak on his feet from training, scared of what's to come. But he won't go down without a fight, he refuses. "What kinda deal are ya talkin' about, ya old dirt-bag? Big man like you? Really? Ya wanna get your dick wet in--" he groans as Tony squeezes his sore wrist, hard enough that the bone creaks, "In someone like me? You could do better. Whaddabout Tommy? I seen you eyein' him up on more than one occasion."   
  
Stan grins up at him, his bravado hiding the sheer panic throbbing in his chest, "Guess I ain't the only faggot in the room, huh tough guy?"  
  
"I ain't a faggot!" Tony growls, and kicks Stan's ankle out from under him, sending him toppling to the floor. "It ain't about _boys_ , it's about ease-- you seen any girls takin' boxin' lessons these days? Don't flatter yourself Pines, you ain't nothin' but convenient."  
  
Stan drops to the floor, catching himself on his wrists, but they give out under him, strained from practice as they are, he wouldn't be surprised if Tony had gone extra hard on him today just for this occasion. He turns up on his side and looks at Tony out of the corner of his eye, breathing hard and full of anger.   
  
"Do whatever you're gonna do."  
  
"Oh _I'm_ not gonna do nothin'," Tony says, adjusting the crotch of his silky athletic shorts. " _You_ are, if you want that teacher friend of yours to keep his face parts in the order they're in now."  
  
Stan sits up on his knees and turns to face his coach. "Whaddaya want me to do, Big Tony, huh? Ya want me to jerk ya off? Want me to put that cock in my mouth? C'mon, you're in charge right? Tell me what do."  
  
"What're you waitin' for, a handwritten invitation? Get to work!" Tony doesn't seem like he honestly has any more idea of what to ask for than Stan really has any experience to give. What a pair they make, it might be funny if it wasn't utterly repulsive.  
  
Wasn't Clifford supposed to be here by now? He was supposed to come at seven. He promised. They were supposed to be flirting over ice cream by now. Stan tries to put that out of his head--it isn't Clifford's fault, none of this is, and he'd like to keep him as far away from Tony as possible, including associating him with this ongoing problem. He's got a plan to handle it, but it's going to require some delicate and revolting work.   
  
He drags his hands up Tony's thighs, loops his thumbs into the waistband of his gym shorts, and pulls them down--of course he's wearing the most disgusting pair of whitey tighties imaginable, and the smell of his musk makes Stan's nose hairs curl, but he swallows down his revulsion and gazes up at his coach with an expression that's hard to read.   
  
Tugging down his underwear, he frees the man's soft cock from its confines, and notes with silent humor that his coach has a smaller prick than he does, which isn't difficult considering Stan's blessing, but he finds it funny all the same.   
  
"Gotta get you hard," Stan grunts, and he spits in his palm, like he has almost every time he's jerked off, and grabs the man roughly by the cock and leans in to put his elbow into jerking him fast and hard.  
  
"JESUS, you tryin' to rip it off?!" Tony shouts, and slaps Stan in the side of the head hard enough that it stings all the way down his neck and into his stomach. "Take a fucking breath, Pines!"  
  
Stan growls, "Sorry, guess it don't feel good to to ya cuz you got a little one."  
  
"The fuck you said to me?" Tony snarls. "Boy you got a _mouth_ on you, I got half a mind to throw you out and spread your faggot teacher's filthy secret anyway! One more smart lip and I swear to god I'll see to it all the meanest motherfuckers in town know what kinda way he is."  
  
"Sorry, you're right. I'll try with my mouth." Stanley replies, and he drops his mouth to Tony's cock, revolted by the flavor of his deep, sour musk hitting his tongue; but he powers through and wraps his lips around it, bobbing his head, laving his tongue over the tip and diving back down, though clumsily because he's never really done this officially before. A few times he'd practiced on a banana when he was alone in his room, but bananas don't have opinions.  
  
Tony doesn't seem to have any complaints, at least. Stan feels hands in his hair and weight on his tongue, his face burns with humiliation as the wiry hair of Tony's unkempt bush jabs him in the cheekbones. He doesn't have a lot of time to pull off the next part of his plan, or much of an idea of where he's going to run to if he manages to get away, and he doesn't know what'll become of Clifford, but as long as he can get to the teacher first, it won't matter what people say. He can and will defend him from anything.  
  
It's while Tony is in the throes of pleasure that Stan decides to take action. He closes his mouth over the straining head of his coach's prick, sucks hard then bites down all at once. Blood blooms in his mouth, and Tony screams, stumbling backward against his desk, and Stanley gets to his feet, adrenaline making him stupid and buzzy, blood trickling down his chin before he spits a wad of it out onto the ground.   
  
Then he grabs Tony by the front of the shirt while he's reeling in pain, and he takes a swing at his face, bloodying his nose in one hit and throws him back across his desk where he leans over and hits him again, hard enough this time to draw blood from his lip and further batter his nose.  
  
Things break bad very quickly, at that point. He had the upper hand for a minute, but Tony is bigger than him, meaner than him, and angrier than him. Somewhere between turning away from Tony and making a break for the door, Stan's belly hit the ground and knocked all the wind out of him. He feels disconnected from his body when he feels the cold office air hit his bare ass, and thrashes like a crocodile. If Tony wants this, he's not going to get it nice or gentle.   
  
In the commotion, neither of them hears the sound of a car door closing with a thump. Ford anxiously checks his watch as he looks into the darkened windows of the gym. It's 7:30, he's an entire half hour late, and part of him is worried that Stan will have already left and started walking home. He can see the lights on deep in the gym, past the main room and back towards the offices, and when he tugs on the door it isn't locked, so he decides to chance a peek inside, just in case.  
  
"Hello?" he calls out, drawing closer to the back. "Stanley, are you--"  
  
A choked sound hits his ears from behind the closed door of an office, followed by the deep grunt of an adult man's voice, and his stomach drops. Flashes of memories of Tony "Knuckles" Mancini giving him and his brother a bit of comfort now and then whenever he could lance like ice across his shoulders. He doesn't want to believe that voice could belong to the man who owned a sandwich shop and smiled with dimples as big as soup bowls, the man who lived next door to them for their entire childhood with his affectionate wife and daughter they grew up with. He pushes the door open.  
  
His brain short circuits as he takes in the sight of Stanley, bunched up on his belly in the middle of the room. His face is smashed in the ground, and there's Tony-- or some version of him, at least. Ford barely recognizes the man except for those dimples, he looks nothing like the Mr. Knuckles he remembers from his childhood. The man is bent over him, and Stan's jeans have been shoved down to his knees, and though from this angle Ford can't see all the excruciating details, he can infer well enough.  
  
A cold shame washes over him as the coach looks up and locks eyes with him. A noise that makes Ford sick to his stomach bounces off the walls of the office as the coach shoves Stan away from him roughly, frantically shoving his dick back into his track pants and he points at Ford with a shouted, "You can't be back here!"  
  
Stan registers briefly that something's happened, but he's a little too dazed to really take it in. He rolls onto his side with a strangled groan, pants still around his knees, his eyes unfocused and hazy, like he's completely checked out of the moment and can only vaguely understand what's happening around him. Really, the only thing he can understand is there's a ringing in his ears, and someone standing in the doorway, but otherwise he's completely gone and trying to make sense of everything.  
  
Clifford can't seem to summon warmth or life into his frozen muscles, stuck on the spot in the doorway as he takes in the scene with horror that quickly blooms into icy realization. This was not consensual. He didn't really think it was from the first moment he laid eyes on the situation, but some part of him had to hope that maybe, maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't actually what it looked like.  
  
"Get up here," Tony grabs Stan around the bicep, yanking him to his feet. "Tell him, Pines. Tell him the truth. Tell him you seduced me, you whiny little faggot."  
  
Stan grumbles under his breath, his head lulling onto Tony's shoulder, like he's trying to find some kindness in the man that had been tucked away for a rainy day--and he just stands there, shaking and breathless, his knees feeling like jelly, Tony's arm the only thing holding him aloft. He says nothing, but lifts his head and looks Clifford dead in the eyes, brows lifting and quivering before tears roll down his cheeks, and he opens his mouth to say something but the words die in his throat before they're even formed and all Stan can do is give a pained whimper as recognition washes over him and he realizes that Clifford is standing right there.  
  
It's that tiny, frightened noise from Stan that finally cut through the fog of disbelieving horror keeping all of Ford's muscles locked, and his fists clench at his sides as the fire of fury ignites in his stomach and warms his frigid muscles. He takes a single step forward, and without even taking the time to wind up and risk giving Tony a chance to block, he smashes his knuckles into the man's face with so much force that his nose pops and breaks on contact as he hits the ground like a sack of bricks, his grip slipping from Stan's arm in the process.  
  
"What the hell?!" Tony shrieks from the floor, cupping his injured nose as blood gushes between his fingers. "What kinda maniac are you?!"  
  
"Look me in the eye and tell me yourself!" Ford yowls like a furious cat, looming over Tony. His body is wiry compared to the stocky ex-boxer, but it's like comparing a rhinoceros to a lion. The power behind Ford's stance, alight with righteous fury, is nothing short of terrifying. When Tony's eyes drift frantically over in Stan's direction, like he hopes the boy will come to his rescue, Ford howls, " **No!** Eyes on me! You don't even deserve to _look at him!"_  
  
Stanley drags himself across the floor, unable to get his legs under him. He makes it to one of the leather armchairs before giving up the ghost and lying flat on his stomach, still not quite able to take a full breath as he watches the scene unfold in a daze. It isn't that he'd been hit in the head, but he's completely lost himself in the achey buzz of being violated by that awful man--but the more he focuses on Clifford's voice, the closer he gets to finding his way out of that fog.  
  
"You wanna go to prison, buddy?!" Tony yells. "I got rights!"  
  
"I don't plan on going to jail," Ford growls as he advances on the trainer, crawling awkwardly backwards to try and get away from him. "What are you going to do? Tell the town I beat your ass for raping a young boy?!"  
  
"Like you're one to talk!" Tony shouts from the floor. "You ain't got any moral high ground here, pal! I saw what you was doin' in that car!"  
  
"That was different!" Ford shouts, despite the heavy, guilty drop in his stomach. "He consented to that!"  
  
Stanley rolls over onto his back and gives a pained sob, awareness creeping back into his body. He can feel the cool air of the gym on his legs, and the cold, concrete floor under his bare ass, but his hands are too dumb right now to do anything about it, so he lies there with his pants around his knees and listens to the two adults arguing, and starts to sob quietly.  
  
"Stanley--" Ford looks back at Stan with a heartbroken expression when he hears him start to cry, but he cuts off when Tony tries to scramble past him. He grabs the trainer by his track jacket and yanks all 300-odd pounds of him up to his knees, slamming him back against the wall. "If I find out you even _breathed_ in Stanley's direction after this, I'm going to strangle you to death with your own mustache, do you understand me?"  
  
"Yes!" Tony wheezes, shrinking down from the furious teacher, and when he's thrown back against the wall, he hurries to his feet and rushes out of the gym, leaving the two of them behind in the office. The sound of the front door rattling and closing, followed by the rumbling of Tony's engine and a squeal of tires as he tears out of the parking lot all fall on their ears in the time it takes for Ford to turn around and face Stan.  
  
"Stanley," he says softly. "Are you okay?"  
  
He doesn't say anything in response to his teacher's voice, just takes in a shuddering breath as he tries to make his body work again, but it doesn't and he just continues to lie there in the middle of the floor, staring up at the ceiling.  
  
"Stanley," Ford approaches him cautiously, dropping down to his knees beside the fallen boy. "Can I touch you?" He doesn't say anything, but he nods, mustering enough strength to lift his hand up, pleading for his mentor's help.   
  
“Oh, Stanley.” Ford’s heart breaks for the boy, and he gently wraps an arm around him, tugging him into his side and giving him something to lean on as he guides him out of the gym and away from the funk of what had just happened. He brings him to his car and tucks him safely into the passenger’s seat before climbing into the driver’s seat and pulling out of the parking lot.  
  
He drives past Stan’s house, but he isn’t taking him home. He brings him out to a suburban area, away from the sprawl of the city, and parks on the side of the road where there aren’t any street lights or people, and turns off the car, plunging them into darkness. For a moment the only sound is their breathing, before the leather of the seat creaks when Ford turns to face the boy.   
  
“This may sound like a stupid question,” he murmurs, keeping his voice a low, comforting buzz in the darkness of the car. “But how are you feeling?”  
  
Stanley's head lifts from where he'd been sitting slumped, with his arms crossed over his chest. He gives a shuddering sigh, which in the darkness allows the older man to form the picture of tears streaming down his face, further proven to point by the way his voice shakes, "How d'ya think I'm feelin'?"  
  
"Bad, I imagine," he says softly.   
  
He lets out a shallow breath as emotions roil in his chest. Guilt leads the charge; he feels like this is all his fault. If they hadn’t been caught by this man, he might never have had the nerve to do this to Stan-- or better yet if Ford hadn’t given in when the boy seduced him, like a filthy old pervert-- but he stops that train of thought. It won’t help Stanley now if he falls apart with grief. He also feels rage, that the man thought he could get away with touching someone like this without their consent, and anguish for what the poor boy is feeling right now.  
  
Shaking his head, he looks back up across at Stan, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. "Stanley... I'm so sorry I was late. Don't blame yourself for this, if you want to blame someone, blame me. If I wasn't late--" he sighs, his chest clenching with the what-ifs and could-have-beens.  
  
"If you wasn't late, he might not've done it." Stan snaps, but he immediately regrets his vitriol--he's too tender to be angry, at least at Clifford. The man's given him everything, and he's done nothing but help him--snapping at him like that feels like too much, a step too far, so Stan sinks back against the leather seat of the pinto and takes in another shaky breath.   
  
"I'm sorry," He mutters quietly. "I don't blame ya...if you hadn't been late, he would'a just found another opportunity to do it, I bet. Probably good that ya came in when ya did, it was about to get ugly." He rubs a hand over his neck and wipes tears from his eyes. "Never thought in a million years Tony'd ever do anything like that."  
  
"Neither did I," Ford agrees, and realizes a second too late that the implication that he knew Tony somehow is a bit out of place. With any luck, Stan is too frazzled to pick up on it. He lets out a trembling sigh of his own, letting his head drop back against the rest behind his neck, and he feels tears well up in his eyes.   
  
His chest clenches up again. He wants to scream, he wants to go back and hunt Tony down and kill him with his bare hands. He wants to go back in time and get there before it happened.   
  
"This is going to be the last thign you want to do right now," Ford says softly. "But we need to document this. I think you should press charges. As a character witness, I can testify for what I saw, and if we document any marks he left on you now then we can use those as evidence. We can see him locked up for what he’s done, and make sure he can never do it to anyone else ever again.”  
  
"I ain't goin' to the police with this, whaddaya nuts?" Stan growls, flinching away from Ford. His shoulders shoot up to his ears and he shakes his head. "My dad would crucify me, and not only that, they'd laugh me outta the police station if I come to 'em sayin' that my coach diddled me. No way. I'm not doin' it."  
  
"Stanley," Ford's voice is pained. “Your father doesn’t have to know. I can help you, I can make sure your father never finds out. He doesn’t need to know a single thing happened. We can keep it all confidential, filter it through a lawyer who can give out NDA’s, we can do this so quietly that nobody will ever hear a whisper of this. I have the money to cover it, and enough experience to navigate this without putting you at risk.”  
  
"But then somebody will know," Stan gives a choked sob. "I don't want anybody to know--it's..." he trails off, another sob dying in his throat. He feels like he cannot hope to convey to his mentor how humilitating it is for this to have happened to him, it sits in his chest, insurmountable and horrid, heavy as an anchor dragging him under a current of hopelessness that's so powerful it terrifies him witless.  "I...can't."  
  
“You can’t just--” Ford sighs, his hands start to shake. “Stanley, you can’t just… repress something like this. It’ll eat you alive over the years, it’ll come back to haunt you at the worst of times if you don’t find any sort of closure. This could ruin your outlook on your self worth, your sense of meaning and personal space--"   
  
The logical part of his brain screaming at him to incarcerate this man so he can't do this again someday is so loud it's drowning out almost everything else, but the last thing Stan needs right now is to be _guilted_ into doing this out of some duty to a future victim that doesn't exist yet.  
  
"Shut up! Whaddaya you know anyways?!" Stan shouts, his voice thundering in the small cab of the car. "I'm not doin' nothin'! Now either take me home, or I'm gonna get out and walk! I'm done talkin' about this... I'm done. Just shut up."  
  
Ford flinches at the volume in Stan's voice, his stomach churning. He closes his eyes for a moment to try and keep the tears from coming, but they come regardless. His breath shudders wetly out of him as he turns over the engine of the pinto, and pulls away from the side of the road without a word.   
  
The drive is silent as the grave as he turns back around to take the boy home, and it isn't until they're pulling into the alleyway driveway beside the shop that Ford speaks again.   
  
"I'll talk to your father," he says without looking away from the front window, his hands still on the wheel. "Explain to him that your coach had an accident, and he won't be able to teach for a while. He'll take the news better from an authority figure."  
  
"Whatever." Stan growls, and he climbs out of the car. He doesn't even say goodbye when he shuts the door, and heads around the back of the shop to go up to his room, and just leaves his mentor to sit alone in that car.  
  
Ford takes a few deep breaths before getting out of the car to follow after him. Even if Stan never wants to talk to him again after this, he has to make sure he gets through this situation unscathed. Caryn is immediately at the front door of the upstairs apartment when it opens, worry making her voice high pitched, and Filbrick stands up from the couch with his arms crossed over his chest.   
  
“You better have a good reason for--” Filbrick starts, but Clifford immediately cuts in. Stan’s brother is standing in the hall, just out of sight and peeking around the corner with a worried expression on his face.  
  
“You would not believe the night we’ve had,” the teacher keeps his voice light-hearted as he nudges Stan’s back, encouraging him to scurry past his parents while they’re distracted, and blessedly he’s actually able to. He can still hear them as he scoots down the hall and towards the bathroom, past the worried face of his brother, “First the traffic, then my tire went out-- not to mention poor Tony.”  
  
“Tony?” he hears his father say as he strips out of his clothes and gets a look at himself in the mirror. He has bruises on his shoulders and jaw. “What happened to Tony?”  
  
“The poor man threw his shoulder out so badly he may never box again,” Clifford says. “Why do you think we were late? The ambulance caused quite a pile up. I doubt he’ll be giving lessons for some time. I’m sure he’ll be able to defer Stanley’s lessons to some of the junior coaches in the meantime, but there might be a sticky period before they get it sorted out.”  
  
The last thing Stan hears before he turns the water on in the shower and drowns out all sounds from the living room is his father’s gruff “hmph” of neutral displeasure. It’s about as close to a positive end to the evening as Stan could possibly hope for. Filbrick will probably be grumpy, but he’ll know he has no reason to be annoyed with Stan, so he’ll just be a little huffier and puffier for a day or so. How Clifford is planning to get Tony to comply with this story is somewhat concerning, but the man has been known to get things done.


End file.
